


Moonshine

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Dexter (TV), Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CROSSOVER: SUPERNATURAL/DEXTER. Dean and Sam team up with Miami Metro to resolve a string of unsolved murders, but they aren't the only ones doing the hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: Dexter, between "The Big One" and the season six premiere; Supernatural, sometime after the season seven premiere. (Note: I did not set this fic between "The Man Who Knew Too Much" and the season seven premiere because the finale ended on a cliffhanger, and the premiere will more likely than not pick up on the same scene in which it left off. Also, since I am neither a writer of the show nor can I see into the future, I do not know what is going to happen during/after the season premiere, so forgive me if there are some details in this story that don't go along with the next season once it airs. This is, after all, fanfiction.)  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or stories. I am just an obsessed fangirl writing a fic. That being said, they're both kick ass shows and I highly recommend checking them out if you haven't already. Although, you probably have because why else would you be reading a fic about them?  
> Note: I WROTE THIS FIC ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO, SO IT DOES REFERENCE THE OLD SEASONS. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT'S CURRENTLY GOING ON. I JUST WANTED TO POST THIS ON THIS WEBSITE. READ THE "SETTING" SECTION FOR MORE OF AN EXPLANATION.

_March 18th._

It was like a slaughterhouse – well, that is, before everyone got all Upton Sinclair on the meatpacking industry. The master bedroom of the small Cutler Ridge house was covered in carnage, the homicide department of Miami Metro, and – most importantly – blood. Lots and lots of gooey, red, sticky blood, baking in the 90-someodd-degree weather that liked to hang around South Florida at all times of the year. But the problem wasn't the stain that all that blood would leave on the bed, the walls, and the ceiling; that wasn't Dexter's problem, after all, but he'd be sure to give a "good luck" pat on the shoulder to anyone whose job it was. The problem was the pattern of the blood, or better yet, the  _lack_ of pattern.

As the best and  _only_  blood splatter analyst of the Miami Metro Police Department, it was Dexter's job to figure out the sequence of events that took place during the homicide by determining the object used to commit the murder, the origin of the impact, the movement and positions of the parties in question, and, on a lucky day, the height and body build of the murderer. Unfortunately, that day wasn't a lucky one. The blood wasn't telling any stories.

"Hey," said a familiar voice from behind Dexter, who was kneeling down next to a part of the carpet that seemed to collect more than its fair share of blood. It was Deb's voice, Dexter's stepsister who worked as a detective for homicide. Detective Morgan. Their dearly departed detective father, Harry, would have been proud. Harry taught both Dexter and Debra everything they knew.

_Everything._

"Find anything?" Deb asked. Her voice was slightly more butch than it probably should have been, and Dexter had a running theory that she did that on purpose to make herself sound tougher; he frequently wished she would knock it off. Dexter looked up at her. She seemed especially uncomfortable in this particular crime scene; her arms were tightly folded across her chest as she eyed the walls, careful not to make any disgusted faces. Deb was damn good at her job and had been around hundreds of crime scenes, but this one was worse than even most the veterans of the station had ever seen. Dexter knew he should ask her if she was alright. Of course she wasn't alright; it was just another stupid question people were supposed to ask to which the reply would always be,  _"Yeah, fine."_  Unless you're Deb. Of course, if you're Deb, the reply would always be,  _"Fuck off and tell me what you know."_  Dexter decided to skip the pleasantries.

He shook his head instead. "Nothing," he said, standing up straight next to his sister. "There's absolutely no pattern I can see. The room's a mess."

Deb snorted a bitter laugh. "You're telling me." Dexter eyed her. It was strange to see such a beautiful girl in such an ugly scene. "LaGuerta's not gonna like that report," Deb went on after collecting herself with a nod of the head and a hard swallow. She was right, though: Lieutenant LaGuerta would want results from this crime scene, not because she cared our anything; but the news would be all over her ass if she didn't find the killer soon.

"Good thing I have to tell her, then," Dexter said with a side smirk toward Deb. "She likes me better than you anyway."

"Fucker."

"If I didn't know better, I'd call this an animal attack," Dexter said, ignoring the name calling like he always did and taking another look around the room. An animal attack was impossible though. What animal crosses town lines and attacks four different people in the course of four days? Well, this makes five people and five days. "I'll run the blood samples when I get back to the station, see if any blood other than the victim's pops up. That's the most I can do right now."

"Then get your ass moving," Deb commanded, going back into Detective Morgan mode. "Find me a lead. I want this asshole on death row by breakfast tomorrow."

"Anything for you," Dexter said dryly before moving to leave the crime scene. The sooner he got back to the lab, the better. He already had an important arrangement set up for after work; one he couldn't miss. As he stepped outside the house, the news reporters and busybody onlookers had already formed a mob on the sidewalk. Dexter smiled at the almost-full moon hanging low on the horizon in the dusk sky as he thought,  _Tonight's the night._

Two days later, the brutal animal-like murders came to a stop for no reason that anyone could explain.


	2. Chapter 2

_April 15th._

All Sam could see in the glare of his laptop was Dean, wolfing down his own body weight in a double bacon cheeseburger with a fried egg on top and a side of chili fries, sitting next to him. How his older brother hadn't died yet – well, died of a heart attack – was beyond Sam, whose own cheeseburger went untouched as he skimmed through articles from all over the South to find their next job. Of course, that would have been a lot easier if Dean hadn't suggested they eat on one of the outside tables of the crappy diner they had ended up in that time.

"Dude,  _eat_ , or I'm gonna eat it for you," Dean said with his mouth full of red meat.

"I'm sure you will," Sam agitatedly muttered under his breath. Dean knew he wasn't hungry anyway; he wasn't going to order any dinner in the first place, but Dean wasn't hearing any of it and ordered for him. Sam didn't have much of an appetite these days. He knew that worried Dean, but he couldn't help it.

"Sam," Dean demanded in his deep, strong  _I'm-your-big-brother-so-shut-up-and-do-as-I-say_  voice, and Sam managed to pick up a french fry and force it down.

"Alright, so there are a few things here," Sam said, desperate to change the subject and get down to business. The family business, that is. It was Sam and Dean's job to travel across America and kill any ghost, demon, monster, or creepy crawler that hid under the bed; and the pay sucked. In fact, the Winchesters made a habit of losing more than they earned. "In Georgia, a man stuck a knife through his wife's heart twelve times, and she lived to tell the newspapers about it."

"Yeah, and the divorce court. And Jerry Springer," Dean said, implying his feelings toward the case. Sam moved on.

"In Mississippi, a family went for a boat trip and never came back."

"So?"

"The boat did."

Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. "C'mon, Sammy. Give me 'wow.' Give me blood and guts and action, not 'Aquaman Steals Family.'" It was so like Dean to throw himself into his work, to look for the bloodiest case possible and roll with it, instead of dealing with the more important things in their lives, like his having to leave behind two people he loved or the betrayal of his closest friend – not to mention Sam's problem. Actually, Sam was shocked he hadn't heard the  _"Let's go to Vegas or Disney Land and take some time off"_  or the  _"I'm tired, Sammy"_  speeches by now. Whenever Dean needed to open up, he closed down; and whenever Sam tried to get Dean to open up, he would get punched in the face. Deciding that a diner wasn't the greatest place for another emotional beating, Sam pressed his lips together, sighed, and kept flipping through the articles open on his desktop.

"Okay," he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "How do two bloody animalistic murders sound to you? Cops have no leads."

"Could just be an animal."

"An animal that hops from town to town, follows people into their second floor bedrooms, and waits until they're asleep to attack?"

Dean pursed his lips and considered. "Where's this?" he finally said, and Sam sighed because he knew the next word out of his mouth would seal the deal for Dean: "Miami."

Just as Sam expected, Dean threw the remaining mutilated scraps of his cheeseburger down on its plate, smacked his hands together to get the crumbs off of them, and tossed a $20 from his wallet down on the table. "Miami. During Spring Break? Sammy, we gotta save these poor people."

"You  _do_  know it's the beginning of Hurricane Season, right?" Sam informed his brother, subtly trying to make Dean understand that he wanted to go to Miami for all the wrong reasons. Dean just shook his head and said, "Oh, come on, man. It's been too long since we've been there. Do you even  _remember_ the last time we went to Miami?"

Sam thought about this. Their family had been on the road since Sam was six months old, after their mother died and their father became obsessed with finding the thing that killed her. Dean and Sam grew up having to constantly switch schools, friends, and cities. They would stay in a town for a few weeks, maybe even a few months, while John went hunting, leaving Dean to cook Sam's meals, get him to school on time, and tuck him in at night. " _Watch out for Sammy_ " was the mantra drilled into Dean's brain. But, to Sam's young mind, each town and cheap motel room all looked the same, not that any of that stuff mattered to a child, and any town they blew through in Florida was no exception.

"No," Sam said finally, and Dean nodded. "Nah, you probably wouldn't. You were too young," Dean said thoughtfully, as though he could give the exact calendar date that their family last arrived in Miami. Knowing Dean, he probably could. "Florida it is, then. How far's Miami?"

Sam closed his laptop and stood up when Dean did. "About a day's drive," he estimated.

"Awesome. We can be there in 15 hours."

Sam had no doubt.

* * *

Just as Dean promised, their black 1967 Chevrolet Impala was rolling down Biscayne Boulevard at 9am the next day. Dean had become a champ at high speed driving, making the time between destinations shorter than anyone thought possible. That's important with their job. Traffic misdemeanors and tickets, which Dean was frequently caught for, were never a problem either; if and only if Dean decided to actually pay the ticket, it would be on the tab of Mister Eric Johnson or Philip A. Kennedy or whoever else was the victim of their credit card fraud that month. Dean didn't have one credit card in his wallet with his actual name on it, but neither did Sam. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

Sam had plenty of things with his name on it when he was on his own at Stanford: documents, report cards, essays, you name it. But that was before Dean had plucked Sam from his normal life to hit the road again after their father had mysteriously vanished; when Sam's girlfriend, Jess, was killed by the same thing that killed their mother. It had been a long six and a half years since then, and Sam sometimes wondered if those college days were even real. He had to think hard to remember names and faces and street names and the restaurants he used to take Jess to on their dates; some of them were lost completely, but some were struggling to hang on. Whenever Sam tried to take a stroll down memory lane nowadays, he would later snap back to reality feeling like he had woken up from some foggy dream. So he allowed himself to reminisce as little as possible; he wasn't that guy anymore, anyway.

The blaring sound of a car horn woke Sam up from the light sleep he managed to catch, followed by the driver in the car behind them speeding past the Impala and sticking his middle finger out the window. "Ah, nothin' like those sweet Miami drivers during rush hour. Right, Sammy? They're almost homicidal." Dean said with a gleeful smile, reaching over and patting Sam's knee playfully. "How'd you sleep, princess?" Like Dean didn't know. Like Dean didn't drive through the night listening to Sam mutter in his sleep about whatever nightmarish dream he was in the clutches of that time. Like Dean hadn't put his hand on his brother's shoulder when Sam started shaking and calling out for him.

Like Dean didn't know Sam had been dreaming about his time in the Cage.

"Good. Good," Sam lied – or was he trying to convince himself? – and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, ignoring the glance Dean shot his way. "Do we know the police station handling the murder case yet?"

Dean nodded. "Called Bobby and he found out. Miami Metro Police Department," he said. "Sounds like they should be running a train station instead of a police station."

"Usual FBI covers?"

"Better put your suit on, Agent," Dean said, and Sam noticed for the first time that Dean was already in his suit. He must have stopped sometime while Sam was asleep and slipped it on. "We'll be there in ten minutes."

* * *

Lieutenant Maria LaGuerta was not happy. Every time a serial murder case was open for longer than expected, Washington sent their dogs in. The FBI always came down and stole her cases from right under her nose and there was nothing she could do about it. It's not that she thought her team was more than capable of handling this particular case – after all, it had been filed as "unsolved" and forgotten about up until recently – but it made  _her_ look  _less_ than capable in the eyes of her colleagues, Captain Matthews, and, most importantly, the media. It made her look bad. If she wasn't already having a bad week, what with the recent string of killings, now she had to deal with this?

Still, she was a professional, and her feelings toward the two Agents who strolled onto her doorstep not five minutes ago didn't get in the way of her putting on a polite smile and leading them up to the floor of the homicide department; but LaGuerta was also a strong, hardheaded woman and she would be damned if she didn't get her opinion across in one way or another. "Honestly, Agents. I don't think this is any of the FBI's concern. We can handle this."

"Oh, I'm sure you can, ma'am," the shorter one said, even though he seemed more interested in looking around the room than in anything LaGuerta had to say. She found that belittling. "But we're just here to make sure everything runs smoothly. You can never be too careful, right?"

LaGuerta could think of a million ways to answer that question – in both English and Spanish – but managed to keep them all inside and forced her professional smile back onto her face. "Absolutely."

The shorter Agent – better known by his closest alleys, along with thousands of angels and demons, as Dean Winchester – shot a mischievous smile up at his brother before following the Lieutenant into the main room of the department, which was filled to the brim with the desks of the detectives who worked there. LaGuerta lead Dean and Sam to the desk closest to the door, where a young tall and slender brunette was flipping through papers.

"This is Detective Debra Morgan," LaGuerta told Dean and Sam, and Deb jumped at the sound of her boss's voice, as if she had no idea LaGuerta had approached her in the first place, too wrapped up in her work. Regardless, LaGuerta continued, "She's the detective in charge of this case. She can tell you the details. If you have any questions, my office is right in that corner." She waved her hand in the general direction of her office, smiled her fake smile, and was off once Sam thanked her.

* * *

Dean hadn't even noticed LaGuerta leave. His eyes were too glued to Detective Debra Morgan. "Well, hello," Dean said, dropping his phony professional demeanor and flashing his million dollar grin. Deb smiled back as she stood up, gently blushing under Dean's gaze, and pushed her long hair behind her ears. She cleared her throat and offered her hand. "Detective Morgan," she said.

"So I've heard."

Sam cleared his throat this time. "I'm Agent Collen; this is my partner, Agent Elliott, from Washington," he said, and they both took out their fake FBI badges from their inside jacket pockets and showed them to her before replacing them. "We're here about the recent killing spree in southern Miami. Lieutenant LaGuerta says you've been working the case?"

"Yeah, trying to," Deb admitted, trying not to turn back into Dean's gaze. "So far, we don't have anything but eight dead bodies and our thumbs up our asses."

"Wait,  _eight_?" Sam asked, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his eyebrows. "I thought there had only been two murders."

"Uh, yeah, this month," Deb said, folding her arms impatiently over her chest. "There was a string of murders around this time last month with the same M.O. Six bodies in the course of seven days. How's that even possible?"

"Have you noticed anything  _unusual_ about the bodies?" Dean asked, going back into Federal Badass Agent mode. Sam couldn't help but think that sometimes Dean took his roles too seriously.

"Besides the fact that there's hardly anything left of them when we find them? No," Deb said.

* * *

From across the room, Dexter stood silently in his lab, peered out of the half-blindfolded window that allowed him to view the main room of the office, and watched his sister speak with the two newcomers.  _FBI_ , he thought.  _That's never a good sign._  Still, something dark stirred inside of Dexter as he eyed the men; he was interested in them, but he couldn't explain why. Quickly throwing the black tarp supply bag, equipped with everything he needed for his day job, onto his shoulder, he left the lab and made his way over to Deb's desk.

"Have you noticed anything  _unusual_ about the bodies?" one of the agents was saying. It seemed like a funny question to Dexter and, judging by Deb's sarcastic reply, she thought so too.

"Hey," Dexter interrupted, flashing a smile at Deb before sizing up the Agents. "Dexter Morgan," he said, shaking Sam's hand politely. Something in back of Dexter's mind went on high alert, while something else in his mind started bellowing an evil laugh. Something about this man had awakened Dexter's primal instincts; it made him smirk. On the other end of the handshake, Sam was experiencing a slightly similar reaction, only it left him feeling cold. Both men let go of one another and shoved their hands into their respective pockets.

Dean's face fell. "Morgan? You're husband?" he guessed, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Ew, fuck no!" Debra groaned, throwing Dexter a look. "Not unless you're into incest." Dean and Sam shared a slightly confused look between them and simultaneously shrugged. "He's my brother," Deb clarified. Dean seemed satisfied. "It's my  _boyfriend's_  day off." She pointed at the empty desk across from hers.

"Ah. Right. The old office romance," Dean said incredulously. "With a  _cop_?"

"He could kick your ass, Freckles."

Dean mocked offense. "You should talk,  _More_  Freckles. Guess we'll just have to see whose better at kicking ass."

Deb smiled and leaned in, green eyes locking on green eyes. "Yeah, right. If anyone's kicking anybody's ass around here, it's totally me."

Dexter and Sam uncomfortably cleared their throats in unison.

"Uh, Dexter, these are Agents Elliott and Collen from D.C.," Debra said, changing the subject. Dexter raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Elliott and Collen?" he asked, keeping his voice indifferent. "Like Def Leppard?"

Dean licked his lips. "Excuse me?" he said, trying to hide just how caught he was.

"Our father was a fan," Dexter proceeded. His mind was racing again. Dean let out a chuckle and nodded. "Funny how things work out, huh?" he managed to say. Dexter's eyes narrowed.

"Anyway, me and Dex were actually just about to go to the latest victim's house," Debra said, putting the conversation back and track. Sam was glad. "Great," he said, perking up a little. "Why don't we all drive over and see what we can find."

"Yeah, good luck." Deb rolled her eyes before leading the way toward the elevator. "We've searched that crime scene top to bottom. All we could find was blood and guts." Sam swallowed, to his own surprise,  _nervously_  at her words as blackness flashed through his mind's eye, interrupted briefly by a splatter of deep red.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the hellish Miami traffic, it only took about an hour to get to the most recent victim's house and, to Sam's great relief, all the "blood and guts" had been cleared away to make room for evidence markers and chalk outlines on the hardwood floor. Sam noticed Dexter immediately begin to busy himself by setting up thin red pieces of tape stretching from one place to another, snapping a photo of it, shaking his head in frustration, and repeating the process somewhere else. Dean stood to the side with Debra, finding out everything she knew about the attack on the latest victim, which didn't sound like much.

In the mean time – or, to be more specific, while both the civilians in the room were distracted – Sam occupied himself with the EMF detector, trying not to be too conspicuous about the way he was hiding it close to his body. The small machine whined softly in his hand but didn't give off any readings that were unusual for a house of that size. Once Sam had inspected most of the room, he slipped the EMF back into his pocket and nodded Dean over.

"What d'you got?" Dean said in hushed tones when he made it to Sam's side.

"Not much," Sam answered. "No sulfur. No EMF . . ."

"That means no ghosts or demons," Dean finished, biting his bottom lip. "Yeah, I kinda figured that."

"I was just thinking," Sam said, piquing Dean's interest. They didn't know it, but it also got Dexter's attention; he was across the room, pretending to be focused on his work, as he attempted to catch bits and pieces of Dean and Sam's conversation, but he couldn't hear enough of it for it to make any sense. Of course, it would probably make  _less_ sense to him had Dean and Sam screamed it through a megaphone. Dexter didn't believe in monsters – well, not the kind Dean and Sam were used to dealing with, anyway. "Six victims in a week that stop and then start up again around the same time the following month? Dean, this is the week leading up to the full moon."

Dean's eyes opened a little wider in realization. "You think someone's wolfin' out."

"Lunar pattern fits."

Dean let out a heavy breath that he sounded like he'd been holding in since they got there. "I gotta tell ya, I was kinda hoping this wouldn't be our kind of thing."

"You were the one who was all gung-ho to come to Miami."

"Yeah! To go to South Beach and check out the marine life, if you know what I mean." Dean wriggled his eyebrows up and down and smirked.

Sam let out a disbelieving half-laugh. "Sorry, dude. I'm gonna have to keep you landlocked."

"Yeah, more like cockblocked."

If the Winchesters ever kept score on who got the last word, Dean would win. Dean would  _always_ win.

"Alright, well at least that makes things easier," Dean said. Putting his authoritative voice back on, he turned to Debra. "Detective Morgan, during the week of the murders, were there by any chance reports of a wild animal? Maybe even animal attacks?"

"What?" Deb said, jerking her head back a little as though the sudden unexpected change of topic had actually given her whiplash. She glanced over at Dexter, who had given up pretending to occupy himself and instead focused completely on the conversation at hand, to see if he was having the same reaction. He was, but wasn't making it so obvious. He's never heard FBI Agents ask such strange questions, and, not for the first time that day, it was starting to toy with his imagination.

"Maybe even a missing persons report?" Sam finished, trying to wade through Deb's confusion.

"Uh, well, that's not really my department, but . . ." Debra said slowly, trying to recover. "Yeah, I think there was a missing persons report filed during the week of the last month's murders."

Dexter tried hard not to freeze. He already knew the missing person of whom Debra spoke. He knew him very well. Jeremy Corso, who had brutally beaten and murdered his own father to gain his share of their small inheritance to support his drug habits; a true animal, never caught for his misdeed. Well, not until Dexter caught him. Now he was nothing more than fish food and spec of dried blood cooling in the air conditioning vent of Dexter's apartment.

"The bodies that you do have," Dean continued, "do they have any bite marks or scratches on them?"

"Uh–"

"Are any of them missing anything?"

Deb snorted. "They were ripped to shreds! Fuck, I'd be surprised if they  _weren't_  missing something."

"Anything in particular?" Dean tried again. "Something consistent? A body part or – or an  _organ_  that each victim was missing?"

Deb's glance fell to the floor as she bit down on her thumb and shook her head in thought. And then her eyes lit up.

"Yeah," she said definitively. "The heart. Every victim was missing their heart."

Dean and Sam shared a knowing look between them.

"Why? You think the cocksucker that's doing this is keeping the hearts as a trophy or something?" Deb pried, her mouth hanging open in a mixture of disgust, anger, and morbid fascination.

"Yeah, or somethin'," Dean muttered, breaking the stare with Sam, who then turned to look at Debra. "Uh, Detective Morgan," he said. His voice could never achieve the same level of authority as Dean's at times like these; it was much softer and much kinder, which he was grateful for because sometimes it worked better. "Can we get a copy of the list of victims and any missing persons from both weeks of the murders?"

At the other end of the room, Dexter's face stiffened. "Why are missing people important in this?" he asked, trying to pass it off as mild curiosity.

"Everything's important," Dean said, barely glancing back at him.

For the first time, Debra too had realized something was wrong here. "Wait. Do you want to explain to me just what the fuck is going on, or you just gonna steal my investigation?" she demanded.

"Not steal, Detective. We're just trying to work new leads, see if anything pops up. Actually, we'd like your cooperation with this investigation," Dean said patiently, but what Sam heard was,  _"Of course we're stealing your investigation because you have no idea what you're actually investigating."_  Apparently, Debra wasn't buying it either. "Yeah, right. That's just FBI talk for screwing me six ways from Sunday," she argued, and she had a point.

Dean shot Sam an agitated glare before turning back to Deb. "We're on the same team, Detective. You want to see the . . . person" – he smirked at the word, but only for a second – "who's doing this behind bars, don't you?" Deb put her hands on her hips and chewed on the inside of her mouth, but said nothing, which Dean took as a  _yes_. "Then we'll need a copy of the list of victims."

"The list is back at the station," she said, and added with more force, "But I want in on this, you got that?"

"Great. Yeah. Sure," Sam lied, but his eyes were too soft to argue with. "I'll go back with you and get it." He turned to Dean, "I'll meet you back at the motel later so we can go over it." Dean nodded. They hadn't picked out a motel yet, but Sam knew his brother well enough to know which motel in a million Dean would pick, just as he knew the alias Dean would use.

_A motel?_  Dexter heard himself think in the back of his mind. He had encountered FBI Agents before – hell, Deb even dated one – and they were always put up in much more comfortable settings than some fleabag motel.

The others allowed Dexter enough time to pack up his supplies before heading out to the cars. He didn't take his eyes off Dean and Sam the entire time.

* * *

Right after the four of them emerged through the front door of the house and ducked under the yellow police tape that outlined the rectangular front lawn, Debra let out a quick gasp. "Whoa, sweet car!" she yelled, forgetting all about her agitation toward her case being ripped out from under her for that brief second. Dexter had to agree. The two  _Federal Agents'_  car was a little too exotic. "It's not very official," Dexter said. "The FBI lets you keep it?"

"Hell yeah!" Dean said. "Please, I don't let her out of my sight. Plus, I can't be riding around in some standard company car all the time. That'll blow my cover. Gotta blend in a little." He winked at Debra and flashed another smile before unlocking the Impala's door and ducking into the driver's seat. Sam shook his head and made a face at Dean as he opened the back door of Debra's car and tried to squish his enlarged body comfortably into the back seat.

"You're doing a piss poor job at blending in with a car like that!" Deb yelled after Dean, not even having realized what she just said – but Dexter had. She leaned into Dexter and let out a small laugh. "Who  _are_ these guys?" she whispered, and made her way toward her own car.

Dexter stayed back on the manicured front lawn for a moment, watching the Impala take off down the street.

_I was just about to ask myself that same question_ , he thought.

* * *

A few hours later, Sam was knocking on the door of room 17b of the Motel Blu right off Biscayne Boulevard. Seconds later, Dean opened the door, allowing Sam into the dimly lit room, grumbled a soft "hey", and took back his place on the far bed.

"You sleeping or something?" Sam said with an amused smile at Dean's disheveled hair and face, which was indented with the wrinkle lines of his pillow. "Trying to," Dean muttered, rubbing his eyes and leaning back on the headboard. "Food's on the table."

"Yeah," Sam said, glancing over at the greasy paper bag on the table next to the television stand, but making no attempt to move toward it. Instead, he stood at the end of his own bed and started changing out of his suit. Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything more on the matter.

"Find anything else out from Detective Sweet-Ass?" Dean decided to say.

"A little bit. We were looking over the list of victims back the station. All of them are young, middle class people from good backgrounds. But other than that . . . There's really nothing connecting them." He finished undressing and sat on the edge of his bed, leaning to the side and resting his hand on his thigh.

"What about that missing person?"

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't fit the pattern. He was just some lowlife with a criminal drug record."

Dean shrugged. "You think he's our guy?"

"Can't be. He disappeared six days after the murders started last time. If he was our guy, and if even knew what he was, he wouldn't wait six days to run away. Plus, that wouldn't explain the last few murders . . . But what is it, then? They're all from different towns, different ages and gender. I mean, what's connecting all these victims."

"What can I tell you," Dean sighed, laying himself back down on his bed. "We'll get up tomorrow and start interviewing the vics' families, see what we can see."

Sam stayed quiet for a moment, watching his brother attempting to catch some sleep. "Dean," he said after a full minute passed.

"What?"

"We're not actually letting that detective help us, are we?" Sam asked, but he had to admit, he didn't hate the idea of letting Debra tag alone. Dean had different ideas though. "Of course not, Sam!" he answered immediately. "She's a  _cop_. A smokin' hot cop, but still a cop. She'll just get in the way."

"Yeah, but, Dean, she knows the ins and outs of the case," Sam argued. "I mean, she may not know what's really going on here, but you should have seen her back at the station, the way she was telling me facts about the victims without even having to glance at the files. She knows the leads, man. She can help us connect the dots."

" _No_ , Sam," good old hardheaded Dean insisted. "I'm not letting some innocent girl get involved with our lives again."

_Again._  That's the only word Sam needed to know what Dean's resistance was really about.

"This is about Lisa, isn't it?" Sam asked, trying is luck.

"Sam," Dean warned, the tone of his voice raised slightly, and he rubbed at his eyes. Apparently, Sam wasn't very lucky. But still, he pushed on, "Because, Dean, you did the right–"

" _Goodnight_ , Sam," Dean said, and there wasn't agitation or frustration in his voice; there was only raw anger, and Sam knew Dean well enough to let it go. Sam let out a heavy breath a shook his head, eyes cast down to the carpet where they stayed for some time before he reached for the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds and turned it off.

That night, Sam dreamt of a shadowed figure standing over him, slicing at his body and peeling at his flesh, trying to find new and vicious ways of killing him over and over again for what felt like two centuries. By the time morning arrived, the shadowed figure had perfected its technique.


	4. Chapter 4

Dexter drove for hours, from the time the sun went down to about a quarter after one in the morning, looking in every motel parking lot for the discernible classic Impala, and he had just about given up when he passed the Motel Blu. The review mirror of his Ford Escape reflected the sly grin worn on his face under each passing streetlight. He pulled into the parking lot of the motel, making sure to park a good distance from the Impala, and sat there for some time, taking in every detail of his surroundings.

If these were ordinary circumstances, Dexter wouldn't have rushed right over. He was taught to stalk his prey, to keep his head in the grass and wait for the opportune time to pounce. Dexter was used to planning, to tailing his victims, to learning their habits and schedules before making any moves. Then he would wait until they were out to sneak into their house, find the evidence he needed, and slither out undetected. However, these weren't ordinary circumstances. The thing he needed to search was never going to be left behind, the Agent had said so himself – he never lets the car out of his sight. Dexter had no other choice than to do this while his targets were just feet away. Harry certainly wouldn't approve, but Dexter needed to know. Who were these men? Con artists, killers? Because, whoever they were, they weren't FBI. Dexter needed to satisfy the dark thoughts circling his brain. He needed to be sure – for himself, for Deb, for his Dark Passenger.

The car was the only way. Whatever proof her needed, it would be in there. But he needed to work fast; after all, who knew when these two men would decide to disappear as quickly as they had appeared?

Dexter sat in his car for close to thirty minutes, watching the motel door that the Impala was parked outside of, before he was satisfied that no one was coming out of it and there was no shadowy movement on the other side of the curtained window. Both men slept like the dead.

Careful not to make too much noise, he slid out of his car and casually walked over to the Impala, checking over his shoulder every now and again to make sure no one was around. They weren't, and thankfully the motel hadn't invested in any security cameras for their parking lot, which made Dexter huff. Sometimes people made it just too easy for him.

When he reached the Impala, he knelt down behind the trunk for good measure, constantly keeping an eye on the motel room window, and slipped on his thin black leather gloves. Next, he took out his lock picking set from his cargo pants' pocket and carefully worked on picking the lock of the trunk. It took a few seconds, but a lock is a lock and eventually the trunk softly popped open – to reveal nothing. Dexter slumped his shoulders. No knives and guns, no dead bodies wrapped in duct tape, not even a simple drop of dried blood. He had to admit, he was disappointed.

Sighing, he glanced up at the moon, hanging high and tantalizingly in the clear night sky, and he got an idea. Sometimes these old cars had hidden compartments in the trunk, usually made for additional room for stowing coolers or beach chairs for a nice day of family fun; but there was no reason tools for another brand of fun couldn't be hidden there as well. Turning his attention back to the trunk, he felt along the edges of the inside for any give. Almost immediately, he found a crevice in the floor of the trunk and lifted. What he saw this time was much more pleasing.

In fact, he had to stop himself from letting out an impressed whistled. What he saw were hundred of weapons upon weapons of every shape and size. He saw the usual tools of the trade, like guns and knives of every caliber, ropes, wire, and duct tape; but then there were things that were a bit strange to him: long wooden stakes, makeshift flame throwers, and one large carefully placed archery bow. Then there were contents of the trunk that were just plain weird: crosses and mystical symbols hanging from chains off the weapons, and jugs of water with rosary beads wrapped around the necks. Clearly, whoever these men were, they were insane and they were dangerous. There's nothing quite like a mental case who thinks he's some kind of soldier of God. But why pose as FBI Agents?

Dexter replaced the floor of the trunk and gently closed it shut. When it all came down to it, and artillery in a trunk is all well and good, but it didn't prove anything. Dexter needed hard proof. He needed to know who these guys were before he could do anything. That was the second most important rule Harry had taught him: make sure they're guilty. The first rule, of course, was to not get caught. Dexter wasn't planning on breaking that rule any time soon.

Glancing back at the motel window to make sure nothing had changed, he stayed low and made his way to the driver's side of the car and picked the lock. Once he was inside, he laid down flat on the bench seat and closed the driver door. What was his next move?

The glove compartment under the dashboard.

He opened it up and started rifling around inside, making sure not to mess anything up too obviously, and finally came up with a small metal box hidden under a dozen papers. Inside the box was a stack of IDs – police IDs, Federal Marshal IDs, health inspectors, regular civilian drivers licenses, etc. – each with one of the Agents' picture on them; each with different names and addresses.  _Who are you?_  Dexter thought as he flipped through the various ID cards. Unfortunately, any or none of these names could be the real names of his targets, so he was no closer to finding the proof he needed.

Until he put the ID box away and found a small, black cell phone sitting next to it.

There was no reason this cell phone shouldn't be under another alias, but Dexter reasoned that a phone hidden so well should mean something important. He searched the contacts until he found the entry titled  _My Number_ , as most phones come programmed with, pulled out his own cell phone, and dialed the number on the screen. He clicked the  _end_  button on the first phone before its ringer went off, and what he got was a message machine.

" _This is John Winchester,"_  said a voice that wasn't quite one of the  _Agents'_  but not quite different from theirs either.  _Winchester_ , Dexter noted. He had a name, or at least part of one. The machine continued:  _"I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean . . ."_ Whatever else was recited after that, he didn't notice.

The grin that stretched onto Dexter's face made him look like a brand new man – or maybe he didn't look like a man at all.

He ended the call on John Winchester's phone and erased the missed call in the folder titled  _Recent_  before placing it back into the glove compartment. He sat up straight now, his eyes fixed on the motel room window as that devilish smile played on his lips.

_Hello, Dean Winchester._

* * *

_Dean Winchester_  was the name he typed into the criminal database, which he was able to access from his laptop, before hitting  _search_. Of course, he knew the Florida criminal database, which was his usual medium for finding out all about his victims, wasn't going to cut it – not with the number of IDs the two men had from various other states – so Dexter made sure to run a nationwide search.

While the computer was searching, Dexter sat back in the chair next to his desk and stared out into the living room of his apartment. It was empty and dark that night, the curtains drawn so only a ray of moonlight could pour in from the window behind him. He let the hollow quiet take over time, breathing in the peace and calm. His stepchildren, Astor and Cody, and his son, Harrison, were spending the week at Astor and Cody's grandparents' house; the apartment was Dexter's for the time being. To his own surprise, he did miss his children while they were away – he  _did_  love being their father, after all – but he welcomed the opportunity to focus on the  _other_  most important job he'll ever have.

When the search had completed, it did not give a single ID – no eye color, height, gender, or state of residence – mostly because there  _was_ no identification to give. There were, however, a few hits from the search: police records and newspaper articles, which Dexter clicked on. The first article dated back to 2005, telling of one Dean Winchester, who was wanted for the murders and one attempted murder of various people in St. Louis, Missouri. The article also said he had been killed by a gunshot to the heart by an unknown assailant before the police were able to arrest him, but there was a sketch of Dean Winchester attached to the report and Dexter was certain that was his man. That was the shorter  _Agent_. He felt his heart flutter with excitement as he clicked on the next link.

It was a police report from Baltimore, Maryland in 2006, where Dean Winchester and his accomplice – his  _brother_  – Sam Winchester, had been arrested for robbing a jewelry store. However, they mysteriously escaped before a  _real_ FBI Agent, a man named Victor Henriksen, was able to transport them to a maximum security prison.

The next article belonged to a newspaper from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, back in 2007. Apparently, the Winchesters had taken hostages in a bank. Not everyone lived. Later that year, the Winchesters were admitted to Green River County Detention Center, where they once again eluded Henriksen by somehow escaping. However, in 2008, Henriksen finally caught up with them Colorado, where they were arrested and held for a short period of time in a local police station. The Winchesters would have been airlifted to separate dark, deep holes in the ground where they would never see the light of day again if only the police station hadn't been blown off the map, taking Henriksen, two employees of the station, and Dean and Sam with it. According to official records, the Winchesters died that day, but Dexter noticed that the two men made it a habit of cheating death, so he wasn't so sure.

Dexter closed his laptop and stared idly back into the moonlit room, new and vicious thoughts running through his dark mind, and made himself a promise that he would help the Winchesters break their nasty habit.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was woken up by a loud pounding at the door. He heard Dean groan awake in the bed next to his before Dean struggled to get up and make his way toward the source of the noise. He peered through the peek hole and let out a harsh,  _"Shit,"_  before opening the door and letting the bright sunshine pour into the darkness, which made the Winchesters squinted simultaneously. Detective Debra Morgan stood on the other side of the door, already dressed in tan slacks, a plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and dark aviator sunglasses shielding her green eyes. She eyed Dean up and down, taking in his messed up hair, worn black t-shirt, and grey boxer shorts. "You know, the suit  _really_  doesn't work for you," Deb said with laughter in her voice, but Dean was too groggy to flirt just yet.

"What time is it?" he asked, to which the answer was, "Six A.M. Thought we'd get an early start. I brought coffee." Deb walked into the motel room uninvited and took a sweeping look around. "Shit, when did the FBI get so cheap? Don't you guys usually get put up in someplace swankier than this? Why does the FBI hate you?"

"Uh, Detective Morgan, how  _did_  you find us?" Sam asked as he sat up in bed, rubbed at his eyes, flattened his hair, and just generally tried to make himself look halfway presentable.

"This motel is on my route into work," she said, setting the coffee tray she was holding next to the discolored bag of Sam's forgotten dinner, and placed her hands on her hips. "I was gonna go into the office and call you, Agent Collen. I mean, that's why you gave me your number, right?" – Dean shot Sam an agitated look at this, which Sam averted by looking down at the sheets under him – "But I saw your car in the parking lot when I was riding in. It was kind of hard to miss." There was a pause, and then Deb spoke again. "So, listen. I thought we could go over the evidence again today, see if there's anything I missed. It'd be nice to get a fresh set of eyes on it and–"

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Detective," Dean said, and Sam tried to take his authoritative tone seriously while he was still in his boxers. However, Deb's face fell. "What d'you – I don't – You said you wanted my help with this," she said, frustration rising.

"No, I said we wanted your  _cooperation_. There's a difference," Dean countered. Deb shook her head and let out a hissing breath. "Typical FBI. You dicks are all the same," she said.

"D– Elliott, maybe she—" Sam started to insist, but Dean cut him off.

" _No_. Listen to me, Detective. You've done your part. Leave the rest to us." Sam knew Dean was only trying to protect the Detective, but Deb was right, he was coming across as a dick.

"No, you listen to me," Deb said, the authority in her voice matching Dean's as she stood up straight in front of him and cocked her head to the side. "This is  _my_  case. This is  _my_  city, and I'm under the sworn duty to protect it no matter what. I'm not letting some fucker with an enlarged ego get in the way of that. If this is some kind of pride thing, shove it. You think you can save the day and maybe then your bosses will stop putting you in crap motel rooms? You want all the credit after we catch this asshole? Fine. Take it. I don't give a shit about that. All I want is to see whoever's terrorizing  _my_ city behind bars? Got it? You said it yourself: we're on the same team. And, face it, I know my way around Miami better than you. I have people who owe me favors, I have ins, I know all the leads better than you do. So would it really hurt for me to tag along?"

All was quiet for a moment while Dean and Debra had the stare down of the century, green eyes locked on green eyes, both jaws clenched in a calm rage, and each person's unrelenting headstrong determination bubbling off their skin. But Sam already knew what Dean's answer would be: he was going to let it happen. That wasn't because he thought Debra would be an asset to the investigation or that Deb had a lot of spunk or that he just wanted her to shut the hell up; Sam knew it was something more than that. Whether he would admit it or not, Dean  _wanted_  Deb to come along.

Dean  _liked_  her.

That's why he would say yes.

"Fine," Dean said curtly, and Debra responded by leaning out of Dean's personal space and softening her face.

"I'll meet you guys outside," she said after a pause and walked out the door.

Ten minutes later, Dean and Sam were dressed in their suits and out the door. The entire time, Sam tried not to laugh at his brother being bested by a cop and, for a brief moment, he forgot about his dream.

* * *

By the time the afternoon rolled around, the trio had interviewed three of the victims' families and came up with nothing in particular. Deb tried telling Dean and Sam that she had already interviewed the families and there was nothing anyone had to contribute. She said even the witnesses had told her it was some kind of animal, but later recanted their testimonies. When they pulled into the driveway of the fourth family, this one in Surfside, Debra was starting to think the Agents weren't listening to her.

"I've already told the cops everything," the aging woman told Dean, Sam, and Debra as she handed them each a glass of washed out yellow lemonade while they sat on her couch. She pointed to Deb, "Actually, weren't you one of the cops who interviewed me?"

Deb ignored the question. "Ma'am, we're just trying to collect new evidence so we can figure out what happened to your son. Anything you could tell us, please."

The woman smiled sadly, nodded, and took a seat in the chair across from the couch. "Robert was a good boy. A little down on his luck, that's why he had moved back in with me before he . . ." She cleared her throat to collect herself. "He'd just gotten laid off from his job a few months ago, what with the economy and all, and he was in the process of looking for a new one. Actually, the day before it happened, he'd just gotten home from an interview with a big advertising firm in Miami. He was so excited about that, thought he really had a shot at the job—"

"An interview?" Sam interrupted, remembering something he heard from the previous three families. He hadn't made much of it before – he assumed it was just a coincidence – but now he was mentally kicking himself for not realizing it sooner. "If you don't mind me asking," he said, "which company?"

"Oh, some company called Europa Advertising," she said. "Apparently, they've had a position to fill for some time now." Sam made a note of it.

He thanked the woman, telling her he thought they had everything they needed, and quickly made his way back toward the cars.

* * *

"So, you think this advertising place has something to do with the werewolf?" Dean asked in the car while they were driving back to the city of Miami, Deb's car in tow. They hadn't made it very far from the house of the last family, and Sam was enjoying the peaceful emptiness of the side streets before they had to get back on the brutal main roads. Dean was an aggressive driver as it is, but that was tripled by the equally sadistic Miami drivers.

"Everyone we talked to today said the person who was killed had a job interview the day before they were murdered," Sam told him, shaking his head in thought. "That has to be connection."

Dean nodded. "Alright, we'll go check out this company then, get the list of whoever was interviewed and see if it matches up with the victims. Maybe then we can find out who Rover is." He shot a side glance at Sam. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you. How are you doing with this whole thing?"

Sam shrugged and gave an exaggerated frown. "Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. It's just, I know you don't like hunting werewolves, is all. After the first time we ran into one . . ."

"No, I'm good," Sam insisted. And he really was. "I know there's nothing we can do. There's no cure, ya know? This  _thing_  is killing people and we have to kill  _it_ before it . . ." – he searched for the right words in Dean-speak – "Cujo's out on somebody else."

"See, if I said that, you would have said I was being insensitive," Dean defended.

"It's not insensitive. Not when it's true."

Dean sighed and nodded his head. "Alright," he said, in a sing-song  _whatever-you-say_  voice, before adding, "Well, why don't you call Detective Morgan as see if there's some place we can stop off for a bite to eat before we get on the highway. I'm starvin'."

Sam shook his head while flipping through the list of victims on his lap again. "Not hungry."

"Sam, you barely touched anything yesterday or the day before, you didn't eat dinner or breakfast. You're gonna have to eat sometime," Dean said, trying to be patient.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam said, not worried at all about being patient. "Just leave it alone."

Sam bit his tongue and closed his eyes, wishing he could call do-over and take that back.  _Leave it alone._  He's really done it now.

Dean slammed on the breaks, which earned him a furious beep of Debra's horn from behind them, and turned his body toward Sam. "Do you know just how full of crap you are?" he yelled, not really asking. Sam clenched his jaw and averted his eyes to the floor of the Impala. "I mean, you really think I can't see it? You don't eat, you space out every time someone mentions somethin' the  _slightest_  bit bloody, you have nightmares every time you close your eyes. I mean, hell, Sammy, I'm startin' to hold my breath every time you blink."

"What's the big deal, Dean?" Sam argued with annoyance in his voice. "Weren't you the one who told me to bury everything because 'that's how we keep going'?"

"The big deal is, I'm your  _brother_. And since when do you listen to me, anyway? I  _know_ you, Sam. You  _have_  to talk about it. You go crazy if you don't. Which means, you're gonna have to talk about it to someone eventually and, if anybody gets it,  _it's me_."

Sam scoffed. "It took you  _months_  to talk to me about Hell, Dean."

"Then learn from my mistakes! You're killin' yourself here, Sam. So talk to me."

"Fine!" Sam countered. "You want to talk? Let's talk. You first. Let's talk about how you're dealing with what happened with Lisa and Ben. Or, hey, better yet, let's talk about Cas."

"Don't change the fucking subject, Sam."

Both of them stared at each other intensely for a long pause, everything silent save for the angry persistent beeps of Deb's horn, which went ignored. When Dean spoke again, his face and eyes had softened and his tone had lowered. "Come on, Sammy," he said. "I'm barely holdin' it together as it is, man. Don't you start fallin' apart too."

Sam let out an exhale. "Alright." His voice was softer too. "Alright, I'm sorry. But I can't talk to you about it. Not yet, anyway. I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't know what to say. I just – I just need some time, alright? I need to figure out what's going on in my own head first."

He wanted to tell Dean. He wanted to tell Dean about what he remembered from Hell. He wanted to tell Dean about the dreams he was having, about the strange shadowed figure that haunted him every night, ready to rip and slash and torture. He wanted to tell Dean that the shadowed figure wasn't all that strange at all, but rather Sam himself. He wanted to tell Dean that, every night, he dreamt of himself killing; sometimes he was torturing his own soul, sometimes it was a monster or a demon, sometimes it was an innocent human being, and, worst of all, sometimes it was Dean. He wanted to tell Dean that he was feeling something constant inside of him, what he could only describe as a perpetual darkness that walked around in his skin with him. He wanted to tell Dean that his brother had a black spot riding in the passenger seat of his Impala. He wanted to tell Dean that, when he awoke from his dreams, he didn't feel sorry; he felt strong and powerful, and that made him scared. That made him  _sick_. Sam wanted to believe so badly that he felt this way because maybe Lucifer never left; maybe he was dormant somewhere inside. But, deep down, Sam knew that these thoughts and feelings were his own. That Hell had twisted him into a new shape. That he was an animal.

And Dean was right: if anyone would understand, he would. But Sam couldn't work up the courage to tell him, not with the way Dean was looking at him right now – not when Dean had always put Sam before himself. Sam wouldn't even know where to begin.

"I need to sort out my own thoughts before I let anybody else in."

Dean stayed silent, both hands gripping the wheel as he sat straight. His jaw was tight and his lips were pressed together in a pucker as he thought. Then, after what felt like ages, he reached for the key in the ignition, turned the car back on, and started driving again without a word.

Sam let out a breath of relief, slightly proud of himself for getting the last word.

New Winchester Score: Sam, one; Dean, one million.


	6. Chapter 6

The offices of Europa Advertising were on the sixteenth floor of a glass-plated skyscraper in the heart of Downtown Miami and, judging from the state of the inside, business was booming. Young tanned Floridian men and women dressed in fine clothing walked up and down the hallways of offices, told jokes next to the water coolers, sat in their beautifully furnished offices and conference rooms, and just generally did everything in their power to make sure any visitors knew they were living the high life. Sam felt like he didn't belong there, like he was somehow dirtying the place up just by sitting in the waiting room, which had immaculately clean tan-colored walls with decorative white moldings above the polished wooden floor; two black leather couches facing each other; and a glass coffee table, with various issues of Forbes Magazine sprinkled on top next to a decorative bowl that severed no particular purpose, in the middle of the couches. On the far right was the receptionists' desk, in which a prim and proper brunette sat, her manicured fingernails clicking on the computer's keyboard.

The only things that appeared to be out of place were Sam, his brother, and their new detective friend, who sat waiting on the couches.

When Sam had just about enough of the professional-like quiet blaring through the office, the door next to the receptionists' desk opened and a middle aged woman – possibly the only person over thirty in the entire office, thought Sam – stuck her head out and said, "Mister Johnson will see you now." All of them stood at the same time and followed the woman through the door.

The corner office of Mister Eric Johnson, Junior Vice President Of Media Services For The Greater Miami-Dade Area, made Sam feel even more uncomfortable than the waiting room did. Two sides of the office were made entirely of window, allowing a view of nearly the entire Downtown area; the floorboards were partially covered by an off-white carpet, possibly so the large oak desk wouldn't scratch them up, and in the center of the room was another small coffee table – which had probably never been used for coffee or anything else, for that matter – with a star-shaped speaker phone on top. The walls were covered with dry-erase boards, with official scribbles and all, and tasteful modern art paintings which Sam felt like ripping down just to get something in this place out of order.

Johnson, whose mother apparently never taught him how to sit in a chair, what with the way he was sitting on the corner of his desk, was speaking into his Bluetooth when the Winchesters and Debra were escorted in. "Yeah, yeah. Well, just get those sent out," Johnson was saying to the person on the other line before letting out an uproarious laugh which was probably fake. "You too, Mitch! Say hi to Ellen." He smiled over to his visitors and put up a polite finger that suggest he would be with them in a moment. Sam took the time to size up the man; he was a normal corporate world joe: suit, tie, thinning head of hair, wrinkle lines, and hardly anyone Sam would have ever met had the situation been different. "Alright, bye-bye." He clicked the button on the side of his device and ended the call. "Detective; Agents, what can I help you with?" With a wave of his hand, he offered his guests a seat, which they all took, and then turned his attention to the woman who had led them in. "Uh, Nancy, could you get these three some coffees?" She huffed and left the room.

"Actually, Mister Johnson," Deb started, deciding to get the ball rolling, "we're investigating a handful of recent murders in southern Miami."

"Oh?" Johnson asked in tone that lacked any real concern. "I don't really see what that has to do with me."

"Well, Mister Johnson, it appears that, the day before four of the victims' deaths, they had an interview with you. Were you aware of this?" Dean asked.

Johnson gaped. "Um, no, no," he said finally. "I'm sorry to hear that." Sam doubted it. "But it's not really my department to follow up on the applicants. I just interview them to see if they're right for the position, since it  _is_  under my direct supervision, and send my report to HR. After that, I don't hear anything until they've hired someone."

"Mhhm," Dean said, nodding his head once. "And you never wondered why it was taking so long to hire someone?"

"Well, the position has been open for nearly two months, which is somewhat rare; but, again, that isn't my department."

"One more question, Mister Johnson," Debra cut in. "Is there anyone in the office who thinks that job should be theirs? Someone who has expressed this concern to you, and maybe you turned them down?"

Johnson's smile wavered for a moment, and no one caught it but Sam, who tilted his head slightly to the side and fixed his eyes directly on Johnson. That slight hesitation had to mean something, right? Sam looked over at Dean, who apparently hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary, and decided to bite his tongue for the time being.

"If so, I can't see why they wouldn't have applied like any normal person, right?" Johnson said, apparently having not caught the hesitation himself. "Wouldn't it be more logical to do that instead of going around killing people?"

Dean nodded. "Thank you, Mister Johnson, that'll be all." At that moment, Johnson's assistant walked back into the office with a tray of three coffee cups. "But do you have any records of the interviews? Names, dates, that sort of thing?"

"Of course," the man said before turning to Nancy. "Nance, forget the coffees, could you get these gentlemen and lady a copy of the list of everyone being interviewed for the position?" The woman tensed for a moment, smiled, and then exited the room. Sam took that moment to be grateful for his job.

By the time the three of them stood up and followed Nancy out of the office, Johnson was already back to chatting away on his Bluetooth.

* * *

"This is it," Deb exclaimed, a wide grin stretching onto her face. "Mother fucking fuck, this is it!"

The three of them were standing outside the skyscraper which contained Europa Advertising and looking at the list of those interviewed by Johnson, highlighting the names of potential workers, the date they were interviewed, and their addresses and phone numbers – either Nancy was very good at her job or she didn't want the cops snooping around the office anymore and put as much information as possible on the list. The papers lay spread out on the hood of the Impala side-by-side with the list of murder victims.

"Every name on this list" – Debra pointed to the list of victims – "has gone in for the same job interview. Holy  _fuck_ , we just found the lead that could break the case!" She let out a laugh and threw her arms around Dean, who gave a surprised, " _Oh,"_  before returning the hug and smiling. After a few seconds, Debra broke the hug, tugged at her shirt, cleared her throat, and cast her eyes awkwardly down to the sidewalk all at the same time. Dean scratched the back of his head and wrinkled his nose. Sam tried not to point out that  _he_  was, in fact, the one who found the lead; so, instead, he looked back down at the data.

His face froze.

"Guys. There are people on this list who haven't been murdered."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at the paper. "So? They haven't been interviewed yet." Sam held one of papers up to his chest to show the others. "Sandra Blake has," he corrected. "She was interviewed last night."

"What!" Deb yelled, ripping the paper out of Sam's hands and frantically looking over the data. "We gotta get over there." They all scattered to collect the lists, jumped into the cars, and sped off.

* * *

Sandra Blake lived in a small apartment building in South Miami – room 12, second floor – which door Debra was now beating on. "Sandra Blake, open up. Police." She had her gun ready in hand, but no one was really sure why. If anything damage was to be done to Sandra Blake, it would have been done already.

"Sandra!"

"Detective, move out of the way," Dean demanded, and Deb looked at him for a second like he was crazy before stepping to the side. Dean took a step back for balance and kicked forcefully next to the doorknob; the frame broke immediately and the door swung open with one kick. Deb didn't miss a beat and pushed her way through the door, Dean and Sam following after and fanning out to search the apartment. "Sandra?" she called out. "You're not in any trouble. We just need to talk to you." It was a lie, but it would have been effective if only . . .

"Oh, God." Deb's voice was muffled as she stood next to the open bedroom door, and, when Sam and Dean ran over to her, Sam realized that was because her hand was clasped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror as she starred straight into the room. Sam swallowed and looked to Dean, whose grave expression as he looked into the bedroom already told Sam what he would see there, and then turned to look at the scene.

Sandra Blake – or what was left of her, anyway – was laying face up on the bed, her blue eyes wide and lifeless and her mouth open in a silent scream. Half the body – the head and torso – was hanging off the bed while the right leg was bent awkwardly toward the pillows, which were now a deep red color along with the formerly white sheets and Sandra's ripped pale blue nightgown. The left leg was somewhere on the other side of the room. One arm lay in shreds on the night stand and the other was still attached the body by the bone. Her neck, chest, and stomach were slashed open in furious tears and shreds, revealing whatever shiny pink organs were still left inside, while the others were splashed against the wall. Apparently, the werewolf decided the bedroom needed to be repainted and the color of choice was red; very little of the original white was still peaking through.

This was the scene Dean and Debra saw. Sam, on the other hand, saw only black, with flashes of silver blades and deep red goo. Something deep inside him felt at home, but the part of him that wanted to vomit was still too strong.

"Dispatch, I need a team out here immediately," Sam vaguely heard Deb say into her cell phone before she rattled off the address. Miami Metro and every news reporter within a ten mile radius were there within the half hour.

This included Dexter Morgan.

* * *

"Uh, Dean," Sam said in hushed tones, getting close enough to his brother so that the cops and forensics team that swarmed the small apartment couldn't hear them. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Dude, can't it wait? I'm kinda in the middle of somethin'," Dean protested. To the untrained eyes, the "something" that Dean was in the middle of would appear to be standing still and peering around the room while everyone else did their job; to a hunter, Dean was checking out every detail, searching for all the small things that those who don't know what's really out there would miss.

Sam took a look around the room himself for a second before looking back at Dean and saying flatly, "No." Dean licked his lips and gave Sam his full attention. "There are a few other people on this list, Dean," Sam said, showing his brother the list given to them by Johnson's assistant and tapping idly at one of the names. "One that we should be worried about. This girl. Anne Sullivan. She was interviewed this morning."

Dean froze at this before snatching the paper from Sam, muttering "Lemme see that," and looking down at it. "Dammit," he said under his breath. When he looked up again, his eyes were searching for Debra. He called her over and told her what Sam had found.

"Shit," she hissed, shaking her head and putting her fingers to her temples. "Come on, what are we still doing here?" Once again, the three of them took off, which Sam was happy about. More than anything, he needed to get out of that apartment. His will was quickly deteriorating and it was getting harder and harder to look over at the mangled body and blood splattered walls and not smile.

* * *

Dexter Morgan was barely focusing on his work, mainly because he knew the same results would show up in the analysis: Nothing. Instead, he kept his watchful eyes on the Winchesters, knowing  _that_  was the job he needed to focus on. He needed to wrap this up – or wrap  _them_  up – before they got anymore alone time with Deb. Who knew why they were pretending to be FBI Agents? All Dexter knew was he didn't like them hanging around his sister, who, for all he knew, could be the Winchesters' next victim.

Not unless he got to them first. And he would. The trap was set, the kill room was ready; and he had to be very careful where he set it up: The Winchesters didn't have a house of their own, and their car was much too small for a well-thought-out homicide; the motel was also a bad idea because the walls were too thin and there were too many people around. Eventually, he settled for an old fishing cabin deep in swamps of Key Largo, where no one would be around for miles.

_Tonight's the night._

From across the room, Dexter watched Sam and Dean whisper to each other. Then, Dean waved Debra over, told her something which, judging by Deb's reaction, was urgent, and the three of them rushed out the door. Dexter tightened his jaw and took a sweeping look around the room to make sure no one was watching him. Hurriedly, he packed up his kit and followed after the Winchesters.


	7. Chapter 7

Debra pushed down the doorbell of the tall pinkish colored villa in Homestead at least a dozen times – in fact, she never took her finger off it – and the loud buzzing sound echoed through the house. By the time they had arrived there, the sun had already gone down, and Sam eyed the bright full moon on the horizon. Its silver light illuminated the red rose gardens on each side of the house's walkway and swept across the tall orange and grapefruit trees which grew tangled together to form a maze in the large backyard. After another dozen rings of the doorbell, the ornate iron door swung open slightly to reveal a small young woman, probably fresh out college, with brown hair and eyes as bright as the moon above them.

"Can I . . . help you?" the girl asked in a quiet voice, gripping the doorknob as though ready to slam the door closed again if need be.

"Are you Anne Sullivan?" Deb asked, and the girl nodded. All three of them flashed their badges as Deb finished, "We're here to help you."

* * *

Dexter's Ford inched up on the road, still hidden from the house by the group of trees bordering the Sullivans' property, and Dexter turned off the car and headlights. Silently, he got out of the car and moved closer to the house, using the trunks of the trees as hiding spots, and got close enough to see Deb disappear into the house with the Winchesters.

"Damn it," Dexter breathed, his eyes going up to the full moon which beckoned him to move closer to the house, to get Deb out of there, to kill the Winchesters. He couldn't leave her alone in there, not out of eyeshot, anyway. He knew he had to get into that house.

* * *

"I don't – You're  _crazy_ ," Anne protested from her place on the couch. Despite the humid heat of the night, she had a blanket wrapped around her as she shivered. Deb sat beside her the entire time, moving her hand up and down Anne's back in a comforting way. "I know it's a little difficult to understand, Anne," Deb was telling her, her voice gentle and soothing, "but this has happened to everyone who's gone in for an interview at Europa. We're here to make sure the same thing doesn't happen to you. And it  _won't_ , okay?" Deb nodded in a reassuring manner at the girl and looked her straight in the eyes. Anne nodded weakly before turning her eyes to Dean and Sam, who were peering out every window and glancing down every dark corridor.

"You're gonna be just fine, Anne," Sam heard Dean say. "We're not gonna let anything bad happen to you."

Sam held his gun a little more firmly in his grasp and looked out another window into the moonlit street before turning to Dean and saying, "All clear." He returned to the group at the couch and kneeled down on the floor next to the startled girl. "Anne," he started, his voice soft and his brows furrowed in concern. "We're gonna catch whoever's doing this, I promise. But first, we gotta know who it is. When you went in for your interview, did you notice anything . . . strange? Did anyone say anything to you that seemed a little off? Did anybody threaten you in any way?"

The girl appeared to consider this for a moment, the shook her head and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "N—No, I don't think so," she said. "I'm sorry. It's just, I went into the interview like normal, right? I mean, I was kind of nervous, so I talked to Nancy to calm me down."

"Nancy?" Sam asked, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. "The secretary?"

"Assistant," Anne corrected, "but yeah. She's friends with my mom. They grew up together. Actually, that's how I found out about the job. When I was little, me and my mom used to go visit Nancy at the office all the time – she's been working for Mister Johnson for like, thirty years or something. But I always loved the place, and I've wanted to work there my whole life. That's why I majored in advertising in college, so I could get that job."

At that moment, Sam remembered Nancy's agitation at her boss's orders, he remember Johnson's hesitation when asked whether or not anyone in the office wanted the position. "Anne." Sam's voice had a note of urgency in it now. "Did Nancy ever complain about her job? I mean, does she like it at Europa?"

Anne scoffed. "She  _loves_  it there; it's Mister Johnson she can't stand. She talks about him all the time to my mom. She says that, if she were actually one of his workers instead of his assistant, she would get treated with more respect. And she almost got it, too. She was supposed to be promoted into the new position, but, well, then she got mugged a couple months ago and she went to the hospital for awhile. So, the company started interviewing other people instead. I wasn't gonna go for it at first because I knew Nancy deserved the job, but my mom said not to let Nancy or anybody else get in the way of my dreams."

Dean and Sam looked at each other for a long time at this, seeming to have a silent conversation in their very own muted language – which apparently Anne spoke. "Wait, you're not saying that Nancy – I mean, it's  _Nancy_! I know her. She's a good woman. Plus, it's only a job, right? Who in their right mind would kill people for a  _job_?" The girl was starting to panic again, her eyes wide and her breath hitching. Of course, it didn't help her any when the floorboards of the room above their heads gave off a soft creak.

Dean and Sam stood up immediately at the sound and raised their guns. "Guess we'll find out," Dean said. "Detective Morgan, stay with Anne. Keep your gun on you." Deb nodded bravely, took her gun out of its holster, and scooted closer to Anne, who was now softly shaking and crying, on the couch. Dean caught Sam's eye and nodded toward the staircase, silently telling him to check one side of the house while he checked the other.

* * *

Dexter climbed up the tall wooden trellis which ran up the side of the house to enter the second story window, and found himself in an unlit bedroom – a girl's bedroom. Dexter took a moment to glance over the framed photographs on the wall over the desk before making his way stealthily out of the room. He was half way down the hallway when his boot made contact with a weak floorboard, which groaned wearily under his feet. Dexter cursed at it under his breath before looking around to make sure the coast was clear.

He needed to hide. He shouldn't have even been in that that house, and he wouldn't have been had it not been for Deb.  _Why does my sister always have to be one to hang around psychopathic killers?_  Dexter thought to himself, somewhat ironically, before searching for a place to hide. He spotted a linen closet a little further down the hallway.

_Perfect._

Taking careful, calculated steps, he made his way toward the small cupboard, pressed his back against the shelves stocked full of towels and bed sheets, and closed the door silently in front of him. He tried not to make a sound, and even went as far as calming his breath, making each exhale as shallow as possible before slowly inhaling more of the mothball scented air.

* * *

The stairs moaned under Sam's boots as he made his way up them, gun lowered in both hands and watchful eyes searching the darkness. He reached a small landing on the top of the steps and took a moment to glance out its window at the fruit trees below. The pale light of the moon poured into hallway, casting shadows on the painted walls, as Sam moved on. He slowly opened each door he could find, gun aimed and ready but only meeting empty bedrooms and deserted bathrooms. Sam slacked his shoulders and let out a sigh as his mind turned over the new information Anne had given them.

Something just didn't add up. All signs pointed to Nancy, but, if she really was the werewolf, why wouldn't she just kill Johnson for giving away her job and get it over with? That would be the real revenge, wouldn't it? So what was the point in killing all these innocent people?

And since when do werewolves creep around the houses of their victims before attacking?

Sam arrived back the landing, and his eyes caught a ray of moonlight streaming into the room, illuminating the way down another part of the hallway. About half way down from where he was standing, Sam could make out the thin door of a linen closet. He furrowed his brow and wondered if it was big enough to contain a ravenous beast – but better safe than sorry. Sam readied his gun again and stalked closer to the door, the floor under him protesting with each step, but just as he was about to turn the knob, a loud scream rang through the house, coming from the lower level. Sam turned back reflexively and ran toward the sound.

From his hiding place in the linen closet, Dexter knew the scream belonged to Deb.

* * *

Everything happened so fast, and Sam could hardly keep up.

He skidded to a halt in the room Deb and Anne were in, having only a second to take in the scene. Deb was out cold, laying face up on the couch, but thankfully without any visible wounds. Anne was gone.

No, wait. There was Anne, charging towards Sam with unnatural speed. She was on top of him before Sam had a chance to shoot, and yet he heard shots ring out anyway.

_Dean._

Sam heard the creature that was pinning him to the floor let out a roar, and suddenly the weight was off of him. However, the sound of glass shattering around him told him Dean had missed. The wolf smashed through the window. "Dean," he shouted as his brother took him by the hand and helped him to his feet. "It's Anne."

"C'mon, we gotta catch her," Dean said, and the two of them took off after the werewolf, following it into the backyard, where it got lost in the maze of orange trees. Dean must have spotted broken branches, because he shouted, "Sam, this way," and disappeared into the leaves. Sam had no choice but to follow, but apparently his hesitation to do so took too long, because Dean was completely out of sight.

"Dean!" Sam shouted at the trees, enhancing further and further into the thick vegetation, seconds before he heard leaves rustle and a twig snap. Oranges and grapefruits tumbled to the dirt as Anne sprang from the darkness. In the light of the full moon, Sam could see the girl's face twisted into something terrible and evil: her eyes were pale white circles on her now wrinkled face, her nose flat, and her mouth full of sharp pointed teeth, saliva dripping from the curved lips. If Sam hadn't known better, he would have thought the girl was smiling.

As the wolf ran toward him, he managed to shoot his gun and clip the creature's shoulder, which only made it angry. It growled and leapt toward Sam, pinning him against one of the trees and making him drop his gun in the process. For a moment, he struggled in the creature's grip before he heard more shots fired. The next thing Sam knew, he was standing against the tree by his own accord, the blood splattered on his face shining in the light of moon that peaked through the shadows, and the young Anne was on the dirt. She sputtered and spat blood as gripped her chest, more blood pouring through her fingers where the single silver bullet had hit her heart.

"M—M—" she was muttering. A veil came over her eyes and her body went still. "Mom?"

Sam felt his heart flutter as he watched the light in Anne's eyes go out.

* * *

Back in the house, Dexter ran out of his hiding spot and headed for the downstairs, stopping briefly on the landing when his eyes caught sight of three dark figures running across the backyard and disappearing into the tree line. He couldn't help but notice that none of those figures was his sister. "Deb," he muttered before rushing down the stairs, his pace doubled.

He reached his sister in the living room, her eyes shut as she lay sprawled out on the sofa. "Deb," Dexter said with a swallow, crouching next to the couch and putting his hand under his sister's head for support. She didn't move, but her chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths. Deb was alive. Dexter felt something close to relief wash over him.

He wanted to scoop her up and run to his car – to get her to the nearest hospital – but before he could go through with that plan, he heard a loud gunshot echo in from outside, and then another. The Winchesters would be back soon. He didn't have time. Thinking quickly, Dexter left Deb where she was and ducked back into the stairwell outside of the living room. He had just situated himself in the darkness when the back door of the house flew open and Dean and Sam came through.

"Dean, you got blood all over me," Dexter heard Sam complain as Sam wiped the fresh blood off his face with the sleeve of his now dirty suit. "Well, next time, don't stand so close to the thing I'm shooting," was Dean's reply. Through the doorway, Dexter could see Dean looking down at Debra. "C'mon, we better get her to a hospital," he said before scooping Deb up in his arms. Just as quickly as they came, the Winchesters were gone.

The Winchesters were gone with Deb, but at least they were taking her to a hospital instead of some dark alley, even if Dexter didn't understand why.

As soon as he was alone, Dexter emerged from the darkness and started out of the house, making his way to the trees.

_If Deb wasn't their next victim,_  Dexter thought,  _who was?_

He got his answer soon enough, when he came upon a fresh body resting between two of the fruit trees. Her eyes were still wide in fear and her hand was set limply on her chest while her blood pooled around her, turning the fallen fruit a deep red; some more of her blood had splattered during the bullet's impact and dyed the leaves of a nearby tree crimson. Dexter recognized the girl from the photos he saw in her bedroom, but he didn't know her name. Honestly, he didn't care what her name was; the only thing he cared about was that the Winchesters had done this to her.

The Winchesters had gotten Deb hurt, too.

Before he got back into his car and headed back toward Miami, Dexter stopped back into the house to retrieve a photograph of the smiling late Anne Sullivan.


	8. Chapter 8

Dexter drove around aimlessly for twenty minutes before arriving at Jackson Memorial Hospital when he had gotten their call concerning Debra. He wanted to rush inside immediately, but knew he had a part to play. He couldn't let the Winchesters suspect he was on to them. Once inside the facility, he followed the subdued-colored corridors to Debra's room, which thankfully was nowhere near the ICU. The Winchesters were waiting outside the room for him.

"What happened?" Dexter feigned stupidity, just as he feigned the panic in his voice. "Is she okay? Where is she?"

"She's fine," Dean told him, putting up his hands as though that would somehow calm Dexter down. "She's in the room now. I think they're prepping for an MRI – they wouldn't tell us."

Dexter glanced passed them into the room and spotted Debra lying stilly on the hospital bed. The nurses had traded her clothes for a light green floral hospital gown and she was hooked up to various IVs and beeping monitors. But she was safe.  _For now_ , Dexter couldn't help but think once he looked back at the Winchesters. It was taking every iota of his will to not rip into them right then and there.

"What the hell happened?" he asked again, slowly this time, so they couldn't avoid the question. Dean and Sam looked at each other.

"We were a few miles out of the city, investigating the case," Sam said. "There was a girl there. We—uh, we thought she had a connection with the murderer. And we were right. Uh, he came for her and—"

"Debra got in the way," Dean finished, his voice not nearly as compassionate at Sam's. "But you should be very relieved, Mister Morgan. It could have been a lot worse." If Dexter hadn't been there himself, he may have believed the story. Admittedly, the Winchesters were good liars; he guessed that's how they escaped the system so many times.

Gritting his teeth, Dexter thanked the two men. "Don't worry. We'll find the bastard who did this to her. You've got our word," Dean said and patted Dexter on the arm. "We'll see you soon," was what he finished the lie with, and then both of them were off. Dexter watched them until they were out of sight.

_Sooner than you think_ , he silently promised.

He decided to give the Winchesters a small head start while he slipped in to check on Debra. Once he was satisfied for himself that she was okay, he would leave; he had no other choice. The Winchesters had staked their claim and they would have already skipped town by sunup. He had to move quickly in order for everything to run smoothly; Deb ending up in the hospital had already put enough bumps in the road – not that he blamed her. On the contrary, he blamed them.

" _Dexter. Remember what I taught you." Dexter glanced up over Deb's bed and saw Harry, standing tall, noble, and in solid fresh, looking back at him from the other side. "Never make it make it personal," Harry was saying, his words of wisdom echoing through Dexter's head._

" _Personal?" Dexter asked dryly. "I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this for_ her _." He looked back down at Deb's unconscious form. "They did this to her. They used her to kill. She's as much a victim as any of the lives they've taken . . . I can't let them get away with that."_

" _Dexter, you become too involved, you lose focus. Remember what happened to Rita."_

_Dexter couldn't help what happened to Rita, not anymore; but he_ could _help what happened to Deb._

" _Sorry, Harry," Dexter said, not really meaning it. When he turned away to leave the room, Harry was gone._

He had to beat the Winchester back to the motel, which was simple, because he had the advantage: they were playing in his home field.

He knew a shortcut.

* * *

The rattling roar of the Impala's engine was silenced when the car pulled into the lot of the Motel Blu and Dean turned it off. The two passengers sat still for a while in their seats, staring blankly the weathered door of room 17b. It had been a long day, and both of them were so tired they could hardly move a muscle.

"You think Detective Morgan saw anything?" Dean broke the silence, pursed his lips in thought, and glanced over at Sam, who was barely visible in the shadows of the night.

"Probably not," Sam answered after a pause. "Those things come at you pretty fast."

Dean considered. "Yeah, you're probably right," he said and let out an exasperated sigh. He opened the door of the Impala and struggled to his feet. While doing so, he continued, "Ah well, it's kind of a shame. The girl, I mean." Sam got out of the car too and met Dean's eyes over the roof. Dean's hands were folded together as his arms rested on top of the car; his eyes were staring somewhere behind Sam, or maybe even further off than that. Sam mimicked his brother's pose.

"We had to do it, Dean. I mean, what other choice did we have?"

"Yeah, I know. And I'm not saying I regret it, it's just—" Dean sighed. "Like she said, she wanted that job her whole life. All she was doing was eliminating the competition, ya know? And she didn't even know she was doin' it. It was just instinct." He shrugged. "You gotta give in to your desires sometime."

Sam tightened his jaw and cast his eyes down to his hands. He really hoped Dean was wrong about that.

Sam took a deep breath in, and he thought he wouldn't be able to stop his confession from spilling from his lips: to tell Dean everything he's been thinking, to tell Dean what he remembered. But, before he could get a word out, Dean spoke again. "Which reminds me," he said, the tone in his voice lighter now as he hit the roof of the Impala and stepped back. "I haven't eaten a damn thing all day. There was diner up the road. Why don't you head over there and order us some food? I'll meet up with you in a minute. I gotta take a shower first; I smell like hospitals and dog." Dean sniffed his suit jacket and jerked back immediately, shrugged, and started toward the hotel room.

Sam stayed still. All he could think of was Anne's glistening blood splattered about the trees; it didn't do much for his appetite, for more than the obvious reasons. "I told you, Dean, I'm not hungry," he muttered.

Dean sighed again and ran his hand down his face, clearly too exhausted to argue. "Then get a coffee or somethin', Sam," he said, agitated. "One of us needs to be awake. We're heading out of here as soon as we're done eating. We gotta get out of here before Detective Morgan wakes up and tells everybody what she saw –  _if_ she saw anything, and it might be worse if she didn't. The  _last_ thing I need is for her to keep on this case and keep us in Miami forever." Sam caught the keys of the Impala in one hand when Dean tossed them to him.

"Alright," he agreed, making his way around the car to the driver's side. "Sooner the better. I'll order you a cheeseburger while I wait. Extra onions."

" _And_?" Dean said, a childlike grin on his face. Sam knew what Dean was asking for, but they both wanted to get out of Miami as soon as possible, and Sam hardly thought there was time for dessert. Still, if it got Dean to stop hassling him, he would do it.

"Fine, and a pie."

Dean smiled and pointed his index finger at Sam. "You're a gentlemen and a scholar." Sam rolled his eyes and got back into the car. He didn't know it but, when he drove out of the parking lot, he drove right passed Dexter, who had been hiding away behind the corner of the building the whole time.

* * *

Picking the lock of the motel door was easy; it was the next part that was always the most difficult: actually incapacitating the victim. Some of them gave in without hesitation, some of them wouldn't have had they saw Dexter coming, some of them put up a fight; Dexter thought Dean would be the latter. That's why the fishing rod he sometimes used to choke his victims wouldn't do; that would be too easy for a man like Dean Winchester to escape from. He had to use the m99, and he had to pick the perfect vantage point to sneak up on Dean once he got out of the shower.

Dexter loved a challenge.

The motel room was dark, save for the crack of light that streamed out from under the bathroom door – the curtains were drawn so not even the light of the moon could shine through. Dexter kept an ear on the sound of rushing water coming from behind the bathroom door as he searched for a place to hide. Between the beds? No, Dean would see him coming. In the closet? No, then Dean wouldn't be easily accessible. Dexter's eyes scanned the room and located a small crevice a few inches from the bathroom door: a turn in the wall which was probably built to fit the bathroom of the room next to theirs.  _Bingo._  Dexter situated himself behind the wall, readied the shot of m99 in his gloved hands, and waited.

After a short time, the sound of the water stopped, and Dexter heard Dean pull back the shower curtain. He rolled his eyes as the lyrical noise of a soft humming –  _Metallica?_  – echoed out of the bathroom while Dean dried off and got dressed. Seconds passed and, when the bathroom door finally creaked opened, Dexter tensed his body closer against the wall. Dean Winchester's silhouette appeared in the darkness, his back to Dexter, and Dexter took the opportunity to sneak up behind the man and stick the m99 in his neck before Dean even knew what hit him.

"Sonova—" Dean hissed, dropping the towel he was using to dry his hair in order to put his hand to his neck, and spun around. He couldn't quite make out who it was in the darkness, but he whipped out his gun from the back of his jeans and pointed it at Dexter anyway. "Who the hell are—" Before he could finish, his knees gave out from under him, his gun slipped from his hands, and he fell with a thud to the floor.

Dexter's face twisted into a grin as he knelt down besides Dean's limp body and checked the pocket of the man's jeans for his cell phone. It was there. Dexter left the phone where it was is Dean's pocket, wrapped his hands and feet in duct tape, and worked on dragging him out to the car.

* * *

Dexter eyed the layers of clear plastic wrap and the silver duct tape that restrained his latest playmate to the old wooden table in the center of the room. The muggy cabin in which he stood was miles away from any civilization, some forgotten fishing getaway in the middle of the swamps of Key Largo. No one but the hungry alligators and passive herons were around to hear any screams. Dexter had set up his kill room in the main room of the cabin, and it was now lined with long sheets of plastic – not an inch was missed, just like Harry had taught him. Dexter was ready; he was finally able to put this hound out of his misery. Dean had lived too long now, escaped too many times, and Dexter wasn't going to give him another day.

Dean Winchester stirred, consciousness slowly returning to his foggy brain, and Dexter knew Dean was fully with him when he took in a sharp breath and began fighting against the restraints. "What the  _hell_?" Dean thought aloud, his voice strained and groggy, before stilling himself and looking around the room. His eyes connected with Dexter's.

"Glad to see you with us," Dexter said dryly as Dean's face twisted into disgust. "Wish I could say the same about Deb."

" _You_?" Dean asked, and Dexter swore that the poor thing was trying to think. "What is this?" Apparently, he couldn't work it out.

"Revenge," Dexter hissed, letting the darkness use his voice to speak through him. It formed a lump in his throat – a familiar sensation. "Payback. For all those . . . innocent people you never gave a second chance."

" _What_?" Dean spat. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Here," Dexter said, moving toward the spotlight he set up in the room and turned it on. "Let me enlighten you." Dean would have thought of a remark to counter that horrible joke, had he not been so distracted after he turned his head as much as he could against the plastic wrap around his forehead and saw the pictures of four very familiar faces hanging on the plastic-lined wall: Agent Victor Hendrickson, a young woman and a man Dean recognized from that police station in Colorado but couldn't quite remember their names, and Anne Sullivan. All the victims' pictures Dexter could find.

"You like them? I would have gotten them framed but I didn't have the time," Dexter told him. "But I think they really tie the room together, don't you?"

"Is this some kinda fuckin' joke?" Dean's voice was urgent, and Dexter swore he heard a hint of fear in it. " _Ha_! Very funny. Now let me outta here."

Dexter laughed a humorless laugh. "This isn't a joke, not anymore. This is what you deserve."

"And what are you? Some kinda . . .  _psycho_ vigilante? Gimme a break."

Dexter moved to stand over Dean and picked up the scalpel that he had placed next to his victim's head. "Whoa, whoa, easy, Hannibal," Dean said, again trying to break free of his bonds. Dexter ignored the request and sliced a smooth line in Dean's cheek, earning a hiss of pain from Dean, before collecting a drop of his blood in a microscope slide and holding it up to the light.

"Vigilante," Dexter echoed as though Dean's words had just processed in his mind. "I never thought of it that way." He smirked and turned back to Dean. "But, no. I'm just following orders – a code. An eye for an eye, and you owe a lot more than that. You owe it to them." Again, Dexter directed Dean's focus to the pictures on the wall.

"Dude, you seriously need to get back on your meds," Dean said lightly, doing what he always had: laughing in the face of danger. Dexter's face fell.

"I have to hand it to you,  _Dean,_ " he continued as though Dean hadn't said a word. "You aren't the easiest to catch. I had to work quicker than usual, and, not to mention, it didn't help that you almost got my sister killed. That would have really ruined my evening."

The man on the table groaned and turned his head to glare at Dexter with nothing more than annoyance in his eyes. He was almost as good at faking emotion as Dexter.  _Almost._  "So this is a normal thing for you? Yeah, guess I should'a figured that. Viva Miami, right? That's where most of you  _dicks_  like to hang out." Dean snorted a bitter laugh and pursed his lips, trying and failing to shake his head from side to side. "People, man . . . Won't ever understand 'em. There aren't any rules." He met Dexter's eyes again, a grin playing on his lips. He looked amused. Dexter didn't understand what there was to be amused about.

Well, not for Dean, anyway.

"Except you," Dean went on. "That's right, I forgot. That crap code of yours you were telling me about . . . You sorry, self-righteous,  _stupid_  sonovabitch. You just don't get it, do you?" He raised his voice slightly, wiping that stupid grin off his face and letting some of his bravado fall away. Anger. That was something Dexter was used to from his victims. "I had no choice but to kill the girl! I couldn't just let her go!" Dean was trying to make his captor see eye to eye with him, trying to explain his misdeeds; Dexter was used to that too.

"Just like you couldn't just let that woman in St. Louis go?" Dexter said, not really asking, keeping his voice flat and inhuman. "Or those people in that Milwaukee bank? What about the explosion in Colorado that killed three innocent people and, supposedly, you?" Dexter leaned in close to Dean and grabbed at his cheeks with gloved hands, pretending to inspect him. "You look pretty alive to me –" He released Dean – "For now."

"That was—" Dean started, stopping himself with a grunt. He pressed his lips tightly together and let his chest deflate with a heavy breath through his nostrils before saying, "Man, that girl in Homestead – I couldn't let her go. She was – She was a monster."

"A monster?" Dexter's mouth formed a catlike grin. "A monster like me. A monster like you." His grin turned into a toothy smile as he reached for the drill on the dusty table beside him. He was going to make Dean feel all the pain he's caused and then some. He took one last glance at the big, fat moon hanging full in the sky outside the window before returning his attention to Dean.

"The only difference between you and me," he said finally, "is that you won't get a chance to go bump in the night again."


	9. Chapter 9

Sam waited in the diner for nearly an hour and a half, drumming his fingers on the tabletop and watching Dean's food get cold, before finally leaving. Where the hell was Dean, anyway? It didn't normally take him that long to shower. Although, Dean did seem more tired than usual, and Sam reasoned that his brother fell asleep back at the motel room. While Sam drove back to the Motel Blu, he kept an eye on the side of the road to make sure Dean hadn't woken up and decided to walk over to the diner; he saw no one.

Once Sam killed the motor of the Impala and stepped out onto the cracked tar, the parking lot of the motel was silent around him, as he suspected it would be at a quarter passed two in the morning. He leaned against the car, loosened the dirty tie around his neck, and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying hard to enjoy the warm breeze of the night; but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop feeling numb. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the mangled forms of Anne or some other innocent soul from his nightmares; so he decided instead to keep them open and cast them up at the clear, dark sky, watching the stars get outshined by the glow of the full moon while faded contrails sliced smooth lines into the sky.

Sam rubbed the tired from his eyes and made his way into the motel room, fully prepared to wake Dean up so they could hit the road. But, when he turned on the light, he found both their duffle bags still open on the carpet, both beds unmade, and no Dean.

"Dean?" Sam said and furrowed his eyebrows and put on a curious frown, walking toward the bathroom and opening the door more, only to find it empty. A look of panic came across his face and he spun around. "Dean?" he called, louder this time.

Sam knew Dean, and he knew Dean wouldn't go anywhere besides the diner, not without calling him first. If Dean said he would meet Sam at the restaurant, then Dean would damn well meet Sam at the restaurant. But he didn't. And he wasn't at the motel. Which meant something was wrong.

Sam ran back into the parking lot and took a sweeping look around. Nothing. " _Dean_!" No answer.

He reached into the backseat of the Impala and pulled out his laptop. He didn't wait for the desktop to load completely before logging on to Dean's fake account on the Verizon Wireless website and punching in his brother's cell phone number to track Dean's phone. The digitalized happy little cell tower gave off green arches and the three periods next to the word  _Searching_  seemed to appear and reappear for a century before the results came in.

" _Key Largo_?" Sam said to no one in particular, the tone in his voice as confused as ever. Dean was over an hour out of town, apparently in some swampland in the Keys. That meant Sam had to drive fast. Without exiting the website, he folded his laptop and tossed it back into the Impala before going back into the motel room, throwing on a pair of jeans, and shoving both duffle bags into the car. Dean would kill Sam if he left his stuff behind – besides, he would need them when Sam got him back. And Sam  _would_  get him back.

Who else would keep the nightmares at bay?

The Impala peeled out of the parking lot and headed south on the Biscayne.

* * *

Dexter could see the fear in Dean's eyes now; he could tell that the man was afraid to swallow – that's how close the buzzing drill was to Dean's throat. Dean's eyes darted back and forth, no doubt searching for a way out. But Dexter noticed something else in them too, something that went deeper than fear.

Memory.

Whatever it was, he wouldn't be remembering it for much longer.

The drill lightly touched the skin over Dean's Adam's apple when a light suddenly flashed through the cabin, briefly hitting the plastic-wrapped walls before it was gone. Headlights. It made Dexter stop his work and look behind him at the dark window. When the drill stopped hovering over Dean's throat, the breath of relief he took in was audible. It was one more breath than Dexter wanted the man to have, but he was already pacing towards the window. He pulled the plastic back and looked outside.

The light of the headlights were gone, but Dexter could still make out the faint rumbling of an engine – although, Dean pinpointed it immediately and heard it louder; he knew it better, he had known it all his life. His eyes went wide at the sound. "Sam," he choked out in a whisper.

"Looks like your brother's here earlier than expected," Dexter said, grinning wildly as he looked back at Dean. Maybe this would be better torture than a drill: knowing your own brother was going to die mere feet from you while there was nothing you could do about it. "He's smarter than he looks."

"You touch him, I swear to  _God_ , I'll kill you!" Dean yelled, his voice still hoarse from fear.

"You're not doing much to help your case," Dexter replied airily. He moved toward the table which held his supplies and picked up another syringe filled with m99.

"You're gonna need more than that. I'm talkin' elephant tranquilizer. You really think that stuff's gonna work on  _Sam_?" Dean spat, again fighting against his plastic wrap and duct tape chains. Dexter squared his shoulders and approached Dean. "I wasn't planning on using this on Sam," he said, and stuck the needle into Dean's neck. "I guess I'll just have to improvise."

Dean hissed at the pain for a moment before violently – and fruitlessly – struggling against his restraints. "Sam!" he shouted as loud as he could. "Get out of here! Sammy!" Dexter clasped his hand over Dean's mouth to muffle his shouts. "Mmm! Mmm! Mmmmhmmm!" Dean was fighting to stay awake, moving every part of his body that he could move and doing everything in his power to keep his eyes open; but eventually the drug did its job and his body went limp. Dexter removed his hand, grabbed the fishing wire noose on his equipment table, and quietly emerged into the night.

* * *

Sam was the most homicidal driver on the road, which is saying something for Miami, as he sped towards the Keys, never taking his foot off the gas and using the GPS on his cell phone to find the quickest route. He got there in a little over forty-five minutes, and he hoped he wasn't too late.

The Impala bounced along the dirt road of the marshland as Sam's phone searched for service, but it wasn't of any use anymore so he tossed it in the backseat in a huff. It wasn't until a few seconds later that the headlights hit an old, broken down cabin. Sam gaped and quickly turned off the lights, then inched forward toward the cabin. On his right, he saw a silver Ford parked under a dead oak tree. Sam didn't know what he was getting himself into in the first place, but now he was at a total loss. Dean had to be in that cabin; why else would the tracker on his phone lead Sam here? But maybe he wasn't in danger at all. Maybe Dean had stolen a car and came out here – or maybe he hadn't. It was very unlike Dean to run off unless he had a very good reason. Sam lifted his rifle from the seat beside him and held it close to his chest.

No matter how silent Sam was trying to be, the Impala door squeaked loudly in the eerie quiet of the swamp as he got out, and his boots crunched on the dried leaves under his feet. Sam used the darkness as a cover as he walked toward the cabin, taking in the scene around him while doing so. In the back of the rotting building was a broken and splintered dock which was half submerged in the murky water of the lake. Trees surrounded the cabin on every side, but most of them were too old or dead so they no longer produced leaves, allowing the moonbeams to shine through and cast shadows on the dirt.

Suddenly, something broke the silence: a muted yell that carried on the soft breeze. It sounded like his name. It sounded like Dean.

The sound made Sam spin around and hold up his gun. "Dean?" he hissed in a low voice, crouching low and searching for any signs of movement in the darkness. Nothing came, and Sam lowered his rifle slightly.

Sam rounded the side of the cabin and hid behind one of the trees, slowly peering around the trunk to get a better view of the cabin. That's when the hairs on the back of Sam's neck startled to prickle. He felt something in the back of his mind – some primal instinct telling him to turn around, to brace himself. He did just that. But before he could complete the action by holding up his rifle, a figure caught the gun in Sam's hand and tried to force it from him. Sam fought back, trying to regain control of his weapon by enhancing forward and knocking the figure into the tree behind it. "Who are you!" Sam demanded, his voice deep.

The dark figure answered by kneeing Sam forcefully in the stomach and making him stumble backwards, thankfully with the gun still in hand. Before Sam could regain his composure, the figure charged forward and pinned Sam against another tree. It took Sam by the arm and started knocking it against a low hanging branch until the rifle fell from his grip. Sam swung his fist toward the figure, which ducked out of the way just in time – low enough to pick up Sam's rifle and shoot him directly in the shoulder in one swift motion.

Sam let out a yell of pain and, while he was distracted, the figure kicked at his shins and made him fall to his knees.

Dexter stood straight and threw the rifle into the brush. He hated guns; they were so impersonal. But now he had Sam just where he wanted him and allowed a menacing grin to stretch onto his face.

Sam gripped his shoulder, feeling his blood ooze through the cracks in his fingers. He had gotten shot multiple times before in his life, but it always hurt like a bitch. Sam blinked and looked up his component standing above him, the glow of the moon behind the man making it impossible to read his features. Dexter took a step closer to Sam and kicked up, hitting him directly under the chin and making his neck snap back. Darkness folded over Sam.

Dexter didn't know it, but that was the most restful sleep Sam had gotten in months.

* * *

Sam felt like he had been hit in the head with a boulder when he finally came to, and the world was spinning around him until he blinked it into focus. He groaned. He felt the warm trickle of blood coming from his nose and he tasted iron in his mouth. He scrunched his nose, realizing it must be bleeding, but when he tried to lift his hand to it, he found he had no control over his limbs. This surprised him at first, and he instinctually began struggling against whatever was holding him in place –  _Am I dreaming? –_ before realizing it was getting him nowhere and stilling.

_Think, Sam_ , he thought to himself.

Slowly, the memory of being attacked in the woods hit him. But where was the attacker now? He tried to lift his head to look around, but realized it was held down by something –  _plastic_? Knowing that lifting his head was no longer an option, he did his best to look down his nose at himself, to find his clothes completely off; the only thing covering him, and trapping him to the wobbly wooden table beneath him, were layers of plastic wrap and silver duct tape. Sam felt his heart rate speed up, making the pain in his shoulder throb unbearably. He tried to take his mind off it by looking around the room. It was covered completely in white plastic sheets, but that's all he could see. The smell of earth filled his nostrils, but there was some other scent lingering in the air around him – something familiar. Musk and Old Spice and worn leather, even though his brother hadn't touched Dad's jacket in over two years.

But it was Dean. It was undeniably Dean, which meant he was there.

Sam started trashing wildly against the plastic wrap which restrained him, doing his best to break free before that shadowed figure returned. He had to find Dean.

"It's no use exerting that much energy," a cold, dark voice echoed through the room, and at first Sam wasn't sure if the voice had an owner or if it was just the blackness of the night talking to him. He stopped struggling long enough to look over and see a familiar man emerge through the doorway. "Not even a . . .  _sasquatch_ like you will be able to get out of those."

"You're that blood splatter analyst from the police station," Sam thought aloud, his voice hoarser than he expected.

"And you're not an FBI agent. Are you,  _Sam_?" the man said, and Sam felt his stomach drop at the sound of his own name. He flared his nostrils and took a deep breath in, trying to clear his head. Dean knew he was there by now, Sam was sure of it. Dean would come in any second and knock this guy out.

In the meantime, he had to stall. What could this man want? Obviously, whatever it was, he wanted it bad enough to trap Sam in the middle of nowhere. But he's Detective Morgan's brother, Sam remembered, and reasoned that this must have something to do with Deb in the hospital. There was no way he knew about the werewolf, was there?

"Listen . . . Dexter, right?" Sam asked, hoping that was the man's name. "If this is about your sister, I'm telling you, we had nothing to do with—" Sam was cut off when Dexter swiftly approached him and pressed his middle finger hard into the center of Sam's forehead. This close, Sam could make out the uncompromising coldness in Dexter's eyes. He'd seen demons with eyes less black. "Don't mention my sister," Dexter hissed, and Sam figured it was best to obey. He closed his mouth tightly until Dexter stood up straight and took a few steps back. "This isn't just about Debra. This is about them, and who knows how many more."

Sam was confused for a second; the way his eyebrows knitted together told Dexter that much. Then his expression slackened as Sam followed Dexter's eyes to the glossy picture of a smiling brunette hanging on the far wall of the room. Wasn't that the werewolf he and Dean had just taken out a few miles away? Then Sam realized there were more pictures taped to the plastic next to Anne's, old and forgotten faces from the past – poor people who had unfortunately crossed paths with the Winchesters, and paid with their lives.

Suddenly, it all became clear to Sam. He wasn't dealing with a killer; he was dealing with a vigilante. He was dealing with a vigilante who had no idea what was really going on here. That was worse.

"No, listen to me," Sam tried to reason, tried to keep the panic out of his voice. He wasn't doing such a good job at it, either. "Please. You don't understand –"

"Funny," Dexter interrupted. "That's exactly what your brother tried to tell me." Sam froze. Dexter knew he had him. He allowed himself a grin. "Your brother . . . Dean? That's who you came here looking for, isn't it? Just like I planned."

"What have you done with him?" Sam demanded; his voice low and uncompromising.

Dexter ignored the question. "I wasn't expecting you so soon, though. You almost walked in on us."

"Where is he!" Sam bellowed, fighting against the restraints again.

"Dean's taken care of," Dexter said slowly and flatly, and the seriousness in his tone was enough to still Sam again.

"You're lying," Sam groaned, sounding too sure of himself, and for a second the darkness in his voice matched Dexter's. "Dean!" he shouted, hoping for an answer. When he didn't get one, Sam felt anger bubble up and burn a hole through his stomach. "Where is he? What did you do to him!"

Dexter let out a long, dry laugh as he circled the table Sam was on and sat himself in a rickety chair a few inches away. He rubbed at his face through his gloves. "Don't you two ever  _listen_!" Dexter spat, then calmed his voice. "You won't be seeing your brother again, but you'll see what happened to him soon enough."

Sam twisted his eyes shut, trying to hold back his tears. He was actually starting to believe Dexter; he was actually starting to doubt Dean. "Why?" Sam asked, his voice raw with emotion, but he didn't truly know what he was asking.

Why was Dexter doing this? Why did he want them dead? Why didn't Sam say no to Dean about going to the diner? Why did Sam even let Dean drag him to Miami in the first place? Why was Dexter the dark shadow over Sam, when it should be the other way around?

This was wrong. This wasn't how the nightmares went.

"Because," Dexter found a way to respond despite the question, "Dean was killer – a monster . . . You know, it's really a shame," he went on, not doing much to feign regret, as he stood over Sam. "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Dean. You were just an accomplice. Too bad I don't discriminate. You might as well have just pulled the trigger yourself."

"You have no  _idea_  what you're talking about," Sam protested, no matter how useless it was. Dexter smiled and picked up his scalpel for the second time that night, carving a line in Sam's cheek and continuing the ritual. Ignoring Sam's grunts of pain, Dexter said, "Yes, I do. But at least I'll admit what I am. Pity you're not there yet."

Sam took a heavy, angry breath in. "You think I'm like you? I am  _nothing_  like you!" he yelled, but he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Dexter. By the look on his face, Dexter wasn't buying it. But then his face fell, and he shrugged his shoulders. "You're right," he said nonchalantly. "I'll be alive in the morning."

Dexter turned his back to Sam for a moment as he walked over to the table filled with his tools of the trade. As he turned back around, Sam could see a long thin blade clutched in Dexter's fist, gleaming in the moonlight. Sam's jaw clenched and his eyes went wide as Dexter slowly stalked closer. "No, please." After all this time, Sam still wasn't above pleading. "No, no, nononono." He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up, but knew deep down that this was all too real. Behind his eyelids, he saw fire and smoke; he felt his skin bubble and burn, he heard himself laugh and scream simultaneously; he saw darkness, blackness, mixed with fresh blood and silver blades gleaming.

And, what's worse, he actually thought he deserved it. He knew Dexter was right, about everything. He actually wanted Dexter or the Shadowed Figure or Lucifer or Michael or whoever was willing to put him out of his misery once and for all, to stop him before he did something he regretted –  _again_. But the part of him that wanted to hold on, to cling on to dear life – the part of him where his humanity and Jess and Mom and Dad and Bobby and, most of all, Dean lived inside of him – was still too strong.

When Sam shouted out again, it was a call for backup; a call that, like it always had, came involuntarily.

" _Dean_!"

He could feel Dexter above him again, the familiar tingling of a tip of a blade inches away, when he heard something. He prayed it wasn't his imagination.

"Sammy!"


	10. Chapter 10

_Where is he? What did you do to him!_

The world stumbled back into focus at the sound of Sam's voice, and Dean's eyes flew open. The first thing he felt was his cheek stringing, blood still dripping down from where Dexter had sliced him, and the skin on his neck felt raw each time he tried to swivel his head. Also, he noticed that apparently the sick fuck decided to dress him again – even if it was only his t-shirt and jeans, and his jacket was god-knows-where – which was always a good sign. Muffled voices floated in from the other room, and Dean knew one of them belonged to Sam.

"S-Sam. Sammy," he whispered, his one track mind replaying Dad's voice over and over in his head:  _Watch out for Sammy._  And now Sam was in the other room; he had taken Dean's place. Dean had to save him before it was too late.

But, before Dean could help his brother, he had to help himself. Forcing himself to focus, he inspected his current predicament: he was sitting on a wobbly wooden chair, both feet tied to its legs by fraying ropes, and his arms were duct taped together behind his back. He tried forcing his wrists apart to break the tape, but it was no use. Plan B, then. He squinted his eyes in order to adjust them to the darkness and peered around the room for anything sharp: scissors or a knife. No dice. Dexter had been extremely thorough.

If only he were double-jointed, then he would be able to rotate his arms in front of him and bite the tape off. But he wasn't, not that like yoga instructor in Sacramento. Boy, was  _she_ double-jointed . . .

"C'mon, Dean," he muttered to himself. "There's gotta be somethin'." In Dean's experience, there had always been  _something._ But, then again, most of his experience didn't involve actual human beings.

More than anything, he wanted to call Cas. Cas would be able to pop in and free both Dean and Sam before Dexter even knew what hit him. Cas would be a real lifesaver right now. More than once, Dean's lips moved in prayer for Castiel, but it was only muscle memory – it was only a habit – and he stopped himself short each time he realized what he was doing. Even if he  _did_  finish the prayer, Dean didn't think it would matter much. Cas wouldn't come.

Cas probably wasn't listening anymore, anyway.

Since Dean was on his own, he took another sweeping look around the room to see if there was anything he missed, and his eyes caught a busted window a few feet away. The glass shards protruding from the frame may have just been sharp enough to cut through the duct tape.

"Yahtzee."

He worked his hips awkwardly, getting the chair to rock back and forth and then leaned forward so the chair only stood on its front legs. The balls of his feet touched the dusty floor, but it was enough for him to jump forward slightly and have the chair land back down on all-fours a half a foot away from where he was last. It took a lot of balance, but eventually Dean got the hang of it and he was lifting himself up towards the window in no time. Blindly, he stuck the shard of glass between his wrists under his bonds and rubbed it back and forth against the tape. He could feel his wrists starting to bleed, but that was alright – he was used to bleeding by then. Seconds later, the tape snapped in half and he was free.

Rapidly, he leaned down and undid the ropes tied to his legs and stood up. He was still a bit dizzy from the sedative, but being on his feet never felt so good. "Huh . . . Take that, Dahmer," he rasped.

" _Dean!_ "

Dean's eyes widened in panic as he turned toward the doorway, seeing a thin sheet of plastic, which was slit down the middle, blocking his view into the room. "'m comin', I'm coming," he whispered to Sam and picked up the chair by its legs. Luckily, Dean always had a plan.

He quickly and silently made his way towards the doorway and stood to the side, holding the chair in his hands like a weapon. "Sammy!" he yelled his best fake-helpless voice. Moments later, he heard Dexter's voice hiss, "Shit!" He was no doubt wondering how the Winchesters had such impeccable – or terrible, judging by who you asked – timing.

Dean heard footsteps walking toward him, and Dexter tore the plastic to the side and walked into the room, expecting to see Dean still trapped to his chair. "Nighty-night, dick," Dean said from behind him and sent the chair crashing down on Dexter's head. It broke on the impact and Dexter fell to the floor, unconscious. Dean took a moment to look down at the man before wiping his own mouth with the back of his arm and made his way into the other room.

"Dean!" Sam called as soon as he saw his brother, and he felt his heart skip a beat from relief.

"I know, I have great timing," Dean joked, rushing over to Sam on the table and cutting through his restraints with the blade Dexter left behind. Sam sat up and groaned, and he immediately felt his brother's hands holding each of his cheeks while Dean inspected him. "You alright? Anythin' broken?"

"My head hurts like hell," Sam confessed, but apparently Dean took that as a  _no_ , patted Sam's cheek that didn't have the cut on it, and released his face. Then Dean's eyes fell frantically to the floor, searching for something. He located what he was looking for and picked up Sam's jeans and shirt on the other side of the room. "Here, put these on," he told Sam, throwing them at him. "We gotta get outta here before you-know-who wakes up."

"No argument here." Sam gratefully jumped off the table to slip back into his clothes. In the meantime, Dean walked around to the other side of the table and glanced over Dexter's handy knife collection. He let out a whistle. "Man, someone needs to stick to their day job." He noticed two microscope slides with a circle of fresh blood in each resting next to the knives and picked them up.

"Looks like someone's collecting trophies," Dean said, brandishing the slides over his shoulder before snapping them in two. "My sweet ass is first prize, but there's no way I'm goin' up on his shelf."

Sam rolled his eyed, finished dressing, and looked over at his brother. Just in the nick of time, too.

"Dean! Behind you!" he warned, but it was too late. Dexter threw himself into Dean, both of them crashing into the table and flipping it over. Knives slid everywhere, and some of them cut into Dean's skin when he landed on top of them. Dexter recovered quickly and grabbed a blade, lifting it high above his head with the intent of driving it through Dean's heart. But he never got there. Sam had run up behind him and twisted his arms behind his back until he dropped the knife.

Dexter did a side-kick into Sam's ankles and knocked the man to the floor, then jumped to his own feet. He anticipated Dean, who had crept up behind Dexter with a knife in hand, and caught him by the wrist. Dexter grinned as he saw the blood dripping from Dean's wrists and dug his gloved thumb into the wound. Dean let out a pained yell, and it gave Dexter the opportunity to throw him against the wall, tearing down the plastic sheet in the process and allowing the silver light of the moon to stream in.

Sam took that time to get to his feet, and then grabbed Dexter by the shoulders and forced him against the opposite wall from where Dean had landed. One hand was still on Dexter's shoulder, pressing him against the plastic, while his other arm was across the man's throat, keeping him in a chokehold – just like his father had trained him. Their faces were inches from one another's, both men staring into the other's dark, black eyes as though some kind of stare-down could settle all this. But Sam knew that wasn't the case, so he removed his hands from Dexter and punched him hard in the nose.

Dexter grunted and grabbed his nose, ducking away from the next blow and making Sam hit the wall; but Sam had learned from last time, and he was ready for that: he kneed Dexter in the groin and followed it up by grabbing the man's shoulders and throwing him to the ground. Sam was on top of him in an instant, both hands clenched into fists as he threw punch after punch into Dexter's face. He didn't allow Dexter a second to react, and pretty soon his entire face was battered, bruised, and bleeding. But Sam wouldn't stop – he couldn't stop, even long after Dexter had been knocked out cold.

His eyes grew darker and his face twisted into something terrible. His bloodied knuckles reached for something next to him – a knife – and he clenched it in his fist. He held it high, meaning to drive it into Dexter's chest again and again and watch his blood ooze out of him. But, before he got the chance, he was stopped by Dean, who gripped Sam's wrist tight in both hands and held him back.

"Sam! Sam! You crazy?" Sam was vaguely aware of Dean yelling in the back of his mind. He felt one of his brother's hands move in front of him to his far shoulder, where his bullet wound was now just a dull throb, to act as a barrier between him and Dexter; Dean's other hand was still clasped around Sam's shaking wrist.

"Our job ain't people, Sam!" Dean yelled, and Sam heard him loud and clear that time.

"He's not a person, Dean! He's a monster!" Sam heard himself yell, but the words were somehow not his own. His eyes never left Dexter's bloody form. "If we let him go, he's just gonna kill again. I've gotta kill him first!" He tried forcing the knife down again, but Dean's grip only tightened.

" _No_ , Sam! You kill him, that makes you no better than him, d'you hear me?"

" _And what if I'm not, Dean!_ " Sam roared with sudden and unexpected fury, finally taking his eyes off his victim to look at the man holding him back.

Dean's face was soft, almost petrified, with his mouth agape and his bright green eyes searching Sam's face. He looked like he was holding back tears. "Sammy," he pleaded, his voice low and shaking with emotion, and shook his head slightly. It was enough to slam Sam back into reality.

He looked at the situation in a new light – he looked at himself in a new light. He had a man, a  _human being_ , unconscious beneath him, and his big brother was trying his very hardest not to let him skin the man alive. Sam saw the tip of the blade in his fist gleam in the moonlight, and he knew he had a choice to make. He could do one of two things: become the man from his nightmares or become the man he's been trying so hard to be. The choice was harder than he thought, but how could he pick the former with Dean looking at him like that?

Sam licked his lips and tightened his jaw, his entire body shaking in the bitter cold that suddenly washed over him, and he dropped the knife with a clang. He heard Dean take a sigh of relief next to him, but Sam's eyes were screwed too tight to see it.

"C'mon, Sam. C'mon," Dean said, releasing Sam's wrist and placing his other hand over Sam's heart while helping him to his feet. Moments later, the two were in the Impala and speeding off to the main road in silence.

* * *

Dean waited to break the silence until they were back on the highway heading north. "We shouldn't get the cops involved, right?"

It took Sam a moment to realize Dean was speaking before he looked over to his brother and shook his head, even though Dean's eyes were on the road. "No," he replied. "He knows our names, Dean. He knows who we really are. We turn him in, he'll return the favor. I dunno about you, but I don't want the feds on my ass again."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right."

Silence.

"I wonder if Detective Morgan knows what her brother really is," Sam said. Dean didn't answer; he only gave his brother a side glance and searched him up and down before again casting his eyes to the road.

The engine of the Impala revved as Dean stepped further down on the gas.

* * *

They drove for hours, stopping only once at a gas station to clean their wounds, and Dean finally had to stop from exhaustion. They rented a room at a Motel 6 in Lakeland, just outside of Orlando, and ordered a large pizza. Sam ate like he hadn't in years. Then, Dean crashed on one of the beds and fell into a deep, sound sleep – which is just what Sam was waiting for. Sam didn't have time to sleep; he had other plans. He hopped back into the Impala and drove back toward Miami, straight into the parking lot of the Miami Metro Police Department, and he walked up to the homicide department.

Detective Morgan's desk was empty, and Sam assumed she must have been given the day off to recover; that was a relief, because he didn't want to run into her and have to make up some accuse as to why he and Dean were leaving "prematurely." However, he could see Dexter Morgan staring back at him from behind the half-blinded window in his lab, his eyes dark and his mouth slightly agape. Sam made his way into Dexter's lab and closed the door behind him.

"I didn't think I'd see you here so soon," Dexter said flatly, and Sam could see the leftover wounds on the man's face – the wounds Sam had given him. The sides of Dexter's face where black and blue and grey, and there was a gauze taped to a section of his forehead; there was also a bandage on the bridge of his nose, meeting the rounded side of his black eye, and there was a nasty cut which split his lip. Sam didn't know what the man had told the hospital or his coworkers, and he didn't really care, but suddenly his knuckles felt a little stiffer than they had been a moment ago. He had really done a number on Dexter.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, not really sure  _why_  he had come back. "I just want some answers," was the reason he gave.

Dexter snorted a laugh. This man who stood in front of him, who had beat him into unconsciousness,  _knew what he was_ , and now he wanted Dexter to explain it. Dexter wasn't sure if he could, especially since he was fairly sure Sam already knew for himself. "Like what?" he asked regardless.

Now that the question was posed to Sam, he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to ask. Or, rather, he knew  _exactly_  what he wanted to ask, but was too afraid to get the answer. "It's just," he started, his brain and his mouth fighting for power. "What makes a person . . ." He licked his lips, let out a breath, and decided to start again. "How do you . . . ?"

Despite the lack of words, Dexter knew what Sam was getting at. "Why don't you ask your brother?"

Sam dropped his shoulders and looked Dexter square in the eyes. "Because I'm asking you."

The corners of Dexter's lips curved into a crooked grin. "When I was child, my mother was murdered right in front of me," he said, and Sam was astonished at the lack of the emotion the man's voice held as he did so. Dexter looked up at Sam to gage his reaction with a dark twinkle in his eyes. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"

Sam swallowed hard. He got the feeling that Dexter wasn't expecting an answer, but he choked one out anyway: "Yeah, I do."

With that, Dexter realized what made him so interested in Sam in the first place – why he felt such a pull in the Winchesters' direction. Dean wasn't the one who was the problem, it was Sam. Sam had the same look in his eyes as Dexter did; he had the same shadow inside of him. Sam had a Dark Passenger of his very own.

Then he said something that he had never before uttered aloud, just to see Sam's reaction, "Born in blood."

Sam thought about Ruby. He thought about the jugs of gooey crimson in the trunk of the Impala on the day he said the Big Yes to Lucifer. He thought about the blackness of his imagination, mixed with images of deep red. He thought about the demon blood that had been pumping through his veins his entire life. He thought about the day his mother died in his nursery.

"Born in blood," he echoed. He'd never thought of it that way.

Suddenly, he felt a calmness wash over him.

"I just came to say," he started again, suddenly finding the reason why he made the trip back to Miami. "If I ever see you again, don't expect to make it to the next day."

Dexter's grin turned into a ravenous smile. "Funny," he said. "I was just about to say the same thing to you."

Sam nodded once and reached for the doorknob. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked through the offices of the Miami Metro homicide department one last time, fully aware of Dexter's gaze on his back.

Once in the elevator, Sam turned around and met Dexter's stare through the window of his lab. Their eyes stayed locked, each man sizing up the other's Darkness, until the elevator doors slid to a close.

**End.**

* * *

Soundtrack:

**1.**   _Bad Moon Rising_  – Creedence Clearwater Revival  
 **2.**   _Howl_  – Florence + the Machine  
 **3.**   _Bad Company_  – Bad Company  
 **4.** _Kill of the Night_  – Gin Wigmore


End file.
